


Cooking Made Easy (Or, You Know, Not)

by luckless_is_me



Category: Big Hero 6 (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Not Related, Clearly I didn't think through the plot to this, Get together fic, GoGo's Hama-done with Hiro's hopelessness, GoGo's basically Hiro's mom, Hiro's also kind of a brat, Hiro's hopeless, Humor/Comedy Practice, I love her, M/M, OC- Small role for plot, Some Mentions of Past Bullying, Tadashi has a surprise, Tadashi's... equally hopeless, cooking au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-04-19 20:49:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4760570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luckless_is_me/pseuds/luckless_is_me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So, basically, I wasn’t here to feed you and you stopped eating,” GoGo deadpans, popping her bubble gum with her hip cocked to the side. “Great. Fantastic. Eighteen years old and you can’t even remember to feed yourself.” </p><p>“Hey! I had ramen two nights ago, thank you very much.” He sits up a little quicker than necessary and is greeted with the room spinning on its axis. He barely manages to catch himself before he nosedives off the couch. </p><p>GoGo looks less than impressed, “Right. And instant ramen counts as a food since when exactly, Mr. Super Genius?”</p><p>“You’re mean,” he whines as he shakily slides back down onto the couch, “and I’m sick. Why are you so mean to me when I’m sick? I thought you were my friend.” </p><p>“I’m your nanny.”</p><p>(Or, alternatively, a Cooking Class AU featuring a Tadashi that can't cook, a difficult Hiro, and me attempting to woo you with my lame attempts at humor.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shrimp Flavored Mistakes

**Author's Note:**

> This is a something. 
> 
> In short, it's a cooking AU that does not involve a lot of cooking and a romance that does not involve a lot of romance. Outside of that? It's a ridiculously long take on me trying to woo you with humor. I have little doubt that it won't work, but here's to trying, yeah? 
> 
> Also, this isn't exactly a gift fic, but I would like to dedicate it to [thehomodabrothers](http://thehomodabrothers.tumblr.com/), who once told me that I could be ridiculous too. Just don't tell Kal, kay?
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in this work. All characters belong to Disney/Marvel.

The world ends on a Saturday. Somehow, Hiro is not particularly surprised by this.

“I leave you alone for two weeks— _two weeks_ — to go back to Changwon and what do I come home to? ‘Hey, GoGo, don’t freak out, but I’m at the E.R. Sorry I might not make it to your welcome home party!’ End message. What the _absolute hell_ , Hamada? You can’t just—,” she cuts herself off with a huff, cheeks puffed up red and angry, her arms crossed in front of her chest, “ _You_.”

“Me,” he shrugs. He doesn’t have much to say for himself, not with cotton still taped to his arms where IVs were only hours ago and deep purple-blue bruises forming along his veins. They look like spots; he thinks he may have been a leopard in a past life.

It’s been a while since he’s slept.

“Well, Hamada? Going to explain?” Tiny black and purple sneakers tip-tap against the tile in his entryway; almond-shaped brown eyes narrow.

Hiro blinks, “I’m fine. ‘S not that bad.” He shrugs again like that’ll pacify her— like he doesn’t know better— before flopping back onto his couch. He’s never been so happy that his apartment is so small. His legs are shaking.

“Hiro, explain. Now.”

He sighs, mushing his face into one of his equally mushy pillows, “I just felt funny in the lab— had a headache and kept getting dizzy. Dr. Callaghan made ‘Sabi take me to the clinic and then they sent me to the hospital. It was no big deal. The doctor just said I was dehydrated and a little malnourished. Food, Gatorade, and vitamins and I’ll be as good as new in a few days.”

“So, _basically_ , I wasn’t here to feed you and you stopped eating,” GoGo deadpans, popping her bubble gum with her hip cocked to the side. “Great. Fantastic. Eighteen years old and you can’t even remember to feed yourself.”

“Hey! I had ramen two nights ago, thank you very much.” He sits up a little quicker than necessary and is greeted with the room spinning on its axis. He barely manages to catch himself before he nosedives into the coffee table.

GoGo looks less than impressed, “Right. And instant ramen counts as a food since when exactly, Mr. Super Genius?”

“You’re mean,” he whines as he shakily slides back down onto the couch, “and I’m sick. Why are you so mean to me when I’m sick? I thought you were my friend.”

“I’m your nanny,” she snorts, turning on her heel. Those tiny sneakers march her into his kitchen and moments later, Hiro can just barely see her riffling through his pantry out of the corner of his eye.

He blinks and a packet of instant ramen nails him in the forehead.

“ _Ow_ , dude! I’m already sick— are you trying to injure me too?” He rubs at the spot indignantly. Another pack bounces off his shoulder. Shrimp flavored, he realizes belatedly. The absolute worst. “Hey, that _hurts_!”

GoGo crosses her arms over her chest, her pink lips set in a disbelieving frown. Almond brown eyes stare into chocolate orbs.

“ _Fine_ ,” he acquiesces, voice set in a low mumble, “It doesn’t hurt. Just stop hitting me with them.” He turns away and buries himself against the fabric of the couch. It’s cold, it’s three-something-or-other in the morning, and he’s tired. He can be forgiven for pouting. “Meanie.”

“Instant ramen and gummy bears,” GoGo accuses from across the room, her voice getting steadily closer. She stops right in front of him, her hands set on her hips, unimpressed, “You disgust me.”

“And you hate me,” he murmurs into the mushy cushion, “Why did I call you again?”

“Because you don’t want Wasabi seeing your apartment.”

“Oh, yeah. That makes sense,” he yawns.

GoGo sighs, “This can’t happen again, Hiro.”

“I know,” he exhales dejectedly, his mouth slack. “I know, okay? It won’t. I’ll be better.”

Calloused fingers grab his chin and Hiro vaguely wonders if she’s going to hit him again in some misguided form of tough love. It’s happened before.

“I was _worried_ about you,” is what he gets instead.

He blinks— once, twice, three times— before he blurts, “I’m _sorry_. I just— I was busy and then I was working and I don’t think about that stuff when I’m— but you always do it for me and I didn’t—”

She cuts him off with a hand over his mouth and another buried under his bangs. They’re absolutely frigid. “This can’t happen again,” she repeats, sighing just slightly before releasing him and pushing him further into the couch’s overstuffed cushions; he goes willingly. “I’ll figure something out. But you have a fever and I’m _obviously_ not getting home tonight. So, what do you need, Hamada?”

“’m cold,” he says miserably.

GoGo nods once before moving to grab him a blanket out of the linen closet at the backside of the kitchen.

“You’re the best,” he calls after her.

“I know.”

“And I love you.”

“I know that too.”

“And you’re my absolute favorite person in the whole wide world.”

“You’re pushing it, Hamada.”

**_____**

One week later, Hiro finds himself standing behind a steel table with his arms crossed over his chest. “This is a horrible, _horrible_ idea.”

“You’re fine, Hamada. Stop whining.”

Hiro sighs, rapping the toe of his sneaker against the concrete floor. Tap, tap, tap— one, two, three. Chocolate brown eyes scan the room morosely. It’s small, with a dozen or so steel tables all crammed together and a fully stocked pantry on the far side. Behind him, there’s a row of old ovens that look like they’ve seen better days and directly in front of him, there’s a separate station with a mirror attached to the top and a flyer haphazardly attached to the side with ‘Winnie the Pooh’ patterned duct tape.

_‘Cooking Made Easy: Now That’s a Tasty Combination!’_

Dear god, kill him now.

“Come _on_ , GoGo. I don’t need cooking lessons! I’m fine on my own!” One thin black eyebrow rises and disappears beneath violet hair in a silent challenge. He blanches, “Okay, okay. So, maybe not perfectly fine— _But_ you could totally teach me! You’re a good cook! Why don’t you teach me instead?”

Pink bubble gum pops and GoGo goes back to filling out the stack of paperwork in her hands, “You still remember what happened when I tried to teach you proper citation when you were a freshman, right?”

He remembers. He was fourteen and stupid (except not really) and she was assigned to mentor him because he was too young to work in the labs without supervision. She was less patient back then. She hit him. A lot. He has yet to mess up a report citation. “Unfortunately.”

“Case and point. Here,” She tosses him a purple thread necklace with a nametag looped through its string.

He scowls, “ _Gummy Bear_? You named me Gummy Bear? What is this?”

“You’re supposed to be named after a food. Just be happy I didn’t name you Sour Patch Kid.”

Slim fingers slide along the offending rectangle and he shrugs, pulling it over his head. Little victories. He’s counting it as a win.

“All right, so I’ve filled everything out for you already. You just need to sign the bottom of the waver saying you won’t sue if you injure yourself and turn it all in when the teacher gets here.” Calloused hands push the stack of paperwork towards him and then cross in front of GoGo’s chest. “Until then, just stay out of trouble. Don’t touch anything. Don’t tinker with anything. And don’t even _think_ about leaving. Wasabi and I are getting dinner at the restaurant across the street, so I will know about it.”

He sighs, slumping against the table, “It’s official. You’re evil incarnate. I take back every nice thing I’ve ever said about you.”

She shrugs, “I can live with that. I’ll see you in two hours.”

“’Kay. Cool,” he mumbles into the steel top, “Just leave me here. All alone in a strange place surrounded by people I don’t know. Not dangerous or anything.” He looks up just in time to see her wave him a backhanded good-bye before disappearing through the door, the little bell jingling in her wake.

The traitor. 

Chocolate brown eyes roll and Hiro takes a moment to glance at the clock hanging just above the door. Seven minutes. In seven minutes, he’ll be officially enrolled in a cooking class that he definitely does not want to take or have any part of for the next six weeks. Because it’s _cooking_ and losing four hours every weekend is almost the same as losing an entire _day_. And really, who in their right mind thought it was a good idea to host a class on Saturdays and Sundays?

Those are supposed to be the good days— the tinkering-outside-of-class and the No-I’m-not-awake-at-noon-why-are-you-calling-me days. He’s supposed to be lazy on the weekends. Not go to some stupid class on the far side of town while his soon-to-be-ex-best friend guards the exit.

The whole thing’s a mess. Hiro blames the ramen— the shrimp flavored, specifically.

“Umm, excuse me?”

He jumps, momentarily startled, his facial features relaxing just slightly from the position his brooding put them into. Big brown eyes blink at the man in front of him and the man blinks back, a lazy smile pulling at his lips. Hiro swallows, “Yes…?”

The man gestures to the empty table beside him, “Is this table free? It looks like everywhere else is taken.”

Hiro glances at him wearily for a moment before turning toward the room at large, nibbling at his lower lip when he finds that the man is right. There aren’t any tables left and somehow or other, the room completely filled up without him noticing. Great. Fantastic. Now a dozen and some odd amount of people are going to have a front row seat to his atrocious cooking skills.

He feels himself deflate, his shoulders pulling inwards. At least when GoGo laughs at him he knows she doesn’t really mean it.

“So, umm, is it?”

He turns back to the man with an embarrassed puff in his cheeks and a shrug of his shoulders, “Yeah. Have at it.”

“Thanks.”

Hiro slumps back against the table and faces forward, willing the class to hurry up and start and finish so he can leave. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the man settling himself behind his own table, fretfully laying out his paperwork in organized little stacks. He seems more than happy to be here. Hiro hopes he doesn’t feel like talking.

He is not so lucky.

“You here to learn how to cook?”

Hiro raises an eyebrow, knotting the sleeves of his hoodie around his fingers as he glances back at him. The man looks nice enough with his strong jaw and warm coffee brown eyes, but Hiro’s seen that kind of nice-guy smile pointed his way before on guys just like this one. Guys that are just a few years older and more than six inches taller with muscles galore and girls fawning all over them. Guys just like the ones from high school that used to lure twelve-year-old him behind the backside of the library where the cameras didn’t quite reach and the beating could go on just that much longer. He’s made his mistakes— and he’s not nearly so trusting anymore.

So, he shrugs nonchalantly and twists away, leaning against the far corner of his table with his jacket pulled tight across his chest.

The man doesn’t get the hint, “So, uh, Gummy Bear, huh?”

And he doesn’t _sound_ like he’s making fun of him, but Hiro hears it in his voice anyway, his back straightening just slightly as he turns to read the name printed across the man’s own nametag.

 _Dashi_ , it says.

He scowls, “At least I’m not soup.”

And damn him, Dashi just _laughs_ until the teacher walks in, all leggy and blonde in her bright yellow dress and plain white stockings.

Hiro spends the next few minutes trying to hide his burning cheeks against the tabletop.

He is only somewhat successful.

**______**

“What do you mean you’re not going back?”

Hiro shrugs mostly to himself, his body carefully hunched over his desk as he busies himself with the final touches on his most recent microbot upgrades. They’re completely unnecessary since he’s already gotten approval from Krei Tech to manufacture the prototypes for his previous design, but his first year graduate project hasn’t been cleared yet and he’s got nothing better to do with his time— besides possibly sleeping, but he doesn’t do much of that anyway. “I mean I’m not going to take the class, GoGo.”

“I wasn’t aware I was giving you a choice.” He’s given a moment to recognize the hard edge in her voice before his chair’s being yanked back away from his desk and he’s spun around at a dizzying speed. He winces. Almond-shaped brown eyes do not look pleased. “You need to learn how to cook so you don’t end up back in the hospital again. Do you like being poked and prodded?”

“That happened _one_ time! One time! I know better now— _and_ I’ll be more careful. Promise,” he plasters on a smile and hopes she believes it. Because he’s _sincere_ , but he’s also really bad at remembering such things. From the way one inky black eyebrow disappears beneath dark, layered hair, he’s pretty sure she’s not buying it.

And she isn’t. “You mean like you promised you were going to start sleeping regularly after the incident with finals your freshman year? _Right_ ,” she snorts, “I see those panda eyes, Hamada.”

“No, you don’t. They’re just… Yeah, okay. You’ve got me there,” he grimaces, shrinking just slightly in his chair, his fingers nervously drum-drumming along the arms. “But I just— I forget, okay? And then I remember, but then I’m working and—,” he blinks, a metaphorical lightbulb flashing above his head as a sly grin works its way across his lips, “What makes you think cooking won’t be the same way? I know _how_ to sleep, but I don’t. So, what if I learn how to cook but I still forget to eat? The whole class would be a waste! A full six weeks of weekends— _gone_!”

“But at least I’ll know that you have the physical ability to take care of yourself. And you don’t do anything on the weekends anyway, you hermit. Losing four hours a week of tinkering with whatever you can get your hands on is hardly going to hurt you— or do you like having a microwave that sings _Smash Mouth_ lyrics every time you turn it on?” She flops back onto his rumpled bed and he has the decency to look at least a little sheepish.

The singing microwave thing was kind of a mistake— that he hasn’t been able to fix. _Yet_. He’s working on it. Sometimes. When he gets around to it.

“Besides,” GoGo adds with a grin quirking her pretty pink lips, “I already paid for the course. You’re stuck.”

“ _Actually_ , I’m not,” Hiro smirks, leaning forward in his chair, his skinny ankles bouncing against the carpet, “See, I told the teacher I was just _thinking_ about attending yesterday and she said that final registration isn’t until we start cooking tonight. You’ll get a full refund if I drop out now.”

GoGo hums like she’s thinking it over before, “So, you talked with the teacher? You like her?”

“Honey Lemon,” he rephrases with a shrug. “Yeah. Sure, I guess. She seemed nice enough. A little too enthusiastic maybe, but not bad.”

“And you think you can learn from her?”

“Sure…? We didn’t really cook or anything yesterday, but she was really into it. All about answering questions— that kind of thing. Why?” His fingers tip-tap against the arm of the chair; his toes curl into the carpet.

“Because,” GoGo sighs, pushing her bangs out of her eyes, “I want to know why you’re so against going back. If you like the teacher, what’s the problem? And don’t say you don’t care about cooking, because I’m going to make you learn one way or another.”

Hiro slumps, his shoulders deflating as he manages another halfhearted shrug. He knots his fingers together in his lap. Because, honestly? He didn’t hate the class. The teacher, Honey Lemon, had been really nice about everything. She didn’t treat him any differently than anyone else even though he was easily the youngest one there and about halfway through, he actually started to get excited about learning how to make the different pastries and things. But…, “I don’t know.”

One black eyebrow arches, “I think you do. Spill it.”

Chocolate brown eyes blink at her before he sighs and looks away, a familiar heat running up his neck and spreading across his cheeks. He’s not a little kid anymore and he knows he needs to stop being so childish, but it’s GoGo. She’s almost like the older sister he never had. “So, uh, there’s this guy in the class,” he starts a little uneasily, biting at the tip of his thumb, “His table’s right beside mine and, umm— Yeah.”

She eyes him for a moment and he feels himself redden even further, glancing down at his lap. “Did he do anything to you,” she asks carefully, like she’s trying to soften the blow. And this has happened before, when he was a much-too-young freshman and she caught a couple of the older students sabotaging his equipment in the labs. Four years later and her mentioning it is no less mortifying than it was back then.

But…

He sighs, “No, no— He just wanted to talk before class started and— I don’t know, okay? He already knew the answer to all of the teacher’s questions and it— it was just… weird?” His fingers run through his hair anxiously and a tense smile turns up the corners of his lips, “That sounded so much better in my head.”

“I would hope so,” GoGo smirks, rolling her shoulders, and Hiro feels some of the tension leave his own body, a nervous sort of chuckle pushing passed his lips. “So,” she continues, “he hasn’t done anything. Do you think he will?”

He glances up at the ceiling, mulling it over. “No? I mean, probably not. He seemed friendly, I guess.”

“Then it shouldn’t be a problem. Get dressed. You’re going to class.”

“But, GoGo—”

“No buts.” She stands with an air of confidence and newly inspired purpose and Hiro knows he won’t be getting out of the stupid course. At least he can hang onto the hope that Dashi will drop out. “I left Wasabi waiting for us in the car.”

He blinks, “But you’ve been here for at least an hour…?”

“And it’s _really_ hot outside. What’s taking you two so long,” Wasabi cuts in from the half opened doorway. Dark brown eyes scan the room and his normally dark-skinned friend goes very, very green. Hiro’s almost impressed. “Is that a sandwich?”

Hiro follows his gaze to the corner of his dresser where a rather strange looking lump is sitting half squashed beneath a pile of old textbooks. His head tilts to the side. “No,” he answers honestly, “I think it _was_ a sandwich.”

“…I’ll be in the car.” 

**_____**

Tap, tap, tap. He lets out a shaky sigh, nibbling at his lower lip as he looks around the pantry. Despite the list of ingredients in his hands, he’s not entirely sure of what he’s supposed to grab. Because, yeah, sure— he knows what butter and eggs look like and approximately where to find them, but where would cornstarch be? What even is that? And granulated sugar? Is that like normal sugar? Is there even more than one type of sugar?

His shoulders deflate and he takes a moment to glance back at the room at large, where all of the other students have already grabbed everything they needed and started preparing their dishes. Hiro wishes they were all cooking the same thing so he could cheat— just go to all the same places the other students did and grab all the same things.

But they’re not and he’s absolutely baffled. He’s never even _tried_ shopping outside of the instant food aisle at the supermarket near campus and he’s woefully unprepared for this. How’s he supposed to learn how to cook when he can’t even find the right ingredients?

Slender fingers knot around the paper in his hands and he feels himself beginning to panic— because he’s falling behind fast and wow, isn’t this supposed to be a cooking class? Isn’t everyone supposed to be terrible? Is it just him? It’s just him. It at least _looks_ like it’s just him and—

“Oh, Gummy Bear! I didn’t realize you were still over here. Do you need some help?”

Hiro jumps and nearly falls over his own feet trying to turn around, his sneakers getting tangled up in one another with him pitching forward and swinging his arms to right himself. When he manages to look up, Honey Lemon seems vaguely concerned. He reddens, “I, umm…”

The paper in his hands crinkles loudly between them and he feels himself grimace. She smiles and big green eyes light up behind magenta glasses. “Not a frequent shopper,” she questions, her pink lips quirking to the side.

“Not exactly.” He tries to sound cheeky and confident, running his hand through his hair and smiling, but his voice breaks and squeaks like his childhood cat’s chew toy.

And he was _so_ sure he was finished with puberty already.

Huh.

The more you know.

“Well, that’s perfectly fine! You’re certainly not the first. And with no experience, I don’t have to work to get you out of any bad habits yet. Here.” She plucks the list from his hands with her perfectly manicured nails and her eyes light up as they scan the page, “Oooh, lemon meringue pie, my favorite! Here, here, here.”

Her palpable excitement is hard to ignore and Hiro can’t help but smile along as she drags him around the pantry with her heels click, click, clicking, and her hair swish, swish, swishing as they move. Honey Lemon seems more than pleased loading him down with ingredients, talking a mile a minute as she explains everything to him, but Hiro barely catches any of it, only managing to file away that yes, there is indeed more than one type of sugar and cornstarch is basically just another type of flour before she dumps him back at his station with everything he needs in hand.

He lines the ingredients up on the table and takes a deep breath, nibbling on his lower lip before nodding.

Step one: complete. He’s got this.

Probably.

And surprisingly, he does. The recipe’s a little complicated because he has to keep track of multiple parts at the same time, but Honey said they would all be somewhat difficult before they had gone up to pick their recipes. She said she was testing how well they followed instructions, and well, Hiro can do that. He can read and replicate and forty minutes later, his pie is sitting in the oven waiting for the meringue to brown and he’s bouncing on his heels in anticipation.

He’s a little wound up. Which is fine, because he knows he did everything right and his pie is going to turn out _perfect_ and Honey Lemon will like it and—

“Yours nearly done?”

Hiro scowls, stilling. The only downside of the night (with the exception of the pantry, because nope, nope— he’s not counting that. That definitely never happened) is that Dashi showed up again. He’s officially enrolled now and assigned to the table right next to Hiro’s for the next five full weeks. That’s ten days he’s going to have to deal with this guy. Ten days for two hours a day— twenty hours of his life spent with him smiling from six feet away and answering all the questions in just the right way and making… really perfect chocolate cake.

He blinks at it, taking in the way the cake lays on the cooling rack, smooth and rich and just— man, is he the _only_ person here who _doesn’t_ know how to cook? “You’ve done this before,” he says plainly, a little miffed, his brows furrowing.

“Maybe once or twice,” Dashi admits, rubbing sheepishly at the back of his neck. His cheeks tinge pink, the color slowly spreading across his face as he gives a little shrug.

And Hiro’s not entirely sure of why that is, but he still frowns, an irrational part of him quickly becoming upset at the fact that Dashi _obviously_ already knows how to cook and is taking a beginning class anyway. Because who even does that? _He_ doesn’t hang out in the freshman courses at the San Fransokyo Institute of Technology just to show up the less advanced students. Because that would be rude and immature and—

Just what he expected from the guy that towers over him with his broad shoulders and his nice-guy smile. He doesn’t know why he’s so surprised.

“Why—”

The beep of the oven timer cuts him off and his mouth closes with an audible click. Chocolate brown orbs narrow before he twists away, grabbing the oven mitts off the counter and sliding them over his hands with ease. The tension drains from his shoulders and the spark of excitement that Dashi diminished comes back full force. Because it smells fantastic when he opens the oven and his covered hands latch onto the pie pan so easily and… oh.

It’s flat.

The meringue doesn’t look anything like the picture on the recipe. It’s not quite as golden brown and the peaks have fallen. And it’s completely and utterly flat, the supposed-to-be fluffy white substance nothing but a thick, spongy coating.

His shoulders deflate and he frowns, the pie pan held delicately in front of him. So much for his perfect pie. Is it even edible like this? All spongy and weird? He tilts his head slightly to the side, contemplating. It still smells delicious, but… isn’t there something about poisonous flowers in the desert smelling wonderful to attract their prey? Maybe that’s his pie. Maybe it’s toxic and only smells good so it can poison people.

Anything’s possible.

“Oh, did the meringue not rise?” Hiro twists on his heel and glares, his stupid flat pie held by his chest. Dashi blinks at him, coffee-colored irises wide as he smiles, continuing, “That’s okay. Meringue’s weird like that. I’m sure it still tastes fine.”

His grip tightens around the horribly misshapen pie in his hands and he feels the familiar heat of embarrassment run up his neck to burn the tips of his ears. He grits his teeth.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t ask _you_.”

He’s remarkably pleased by the kicked puppy look across the other man’s face as he stomps away.

**_____**

He's even more pleased when he climbs into the backseat of Wasabi's car half an hour later, bouncing into the middle seat with his partially eaten pie held carefully in his lap. His tooth gap shows in the rear-view mirror and GoGo's image reflects back at him, one thin black eyebrow raised.

"Someone looks happy," she says. 

"I made a pie," he states matter-of-factly, smiling a little wider and holding it up like a present, spinning it on its side so GoGo can see through the clear plastic covering. There are a couple of pieces missing on the side closest to him, where yellow ooze is soaking into the Graham cracker crust and the meringue is shifting just slightly to the side, but all in all, it's still mostly intact. 

GoGo blinks at it, "Is it supposed to be thick like that?" 

"What? No," he squawks, "It's fine! I mean, it's not, like, _pretty_ or anything, but Honey Lemon really liked it— and it still tastes good. See." He scoots forward and shoves it into the front seat. The pie slides to the edge of his fingertips and he nearly drops it in his exuberance. GoGo snatches it before it can hit the dash, inspecting the dish by twirling it slowly in her hands. She doesn't say anything, and Hiro feels himself slowly deflate, his shoulders hunching inward and his newly freed hands pulling at his cargo shorts. "You should, uh, try it," he adds after a few moments of silence, his voice quiet.

"Oh, no, you don't! You are not eating pie in my car," Wasabi pipes up, taking it from GoGo's hands and depositing it back into Hiro's lap, his seatbelt straining across his broad shoulders. "And put your seatbelt on!"

"But we're still in the parking lot," Hiro grumbles, falling into the familiar argument with ease, dutifully sliding back in his seat. His feet drum against the floorboard and chocolate brown eyes inspect the lemon meringue pie in his lap, his fingernails experimentally pulling at the tin. Well, it _is_ kind of ugly.  

"You never know when an accident could happen. Buckle up ev—"

"Just click it, Hiro," GoGo cuts him off with a roll of her eyes. Wasabi glares at her indignantly, but Hiro does as he's told, strapping the seatbelt across his waist with a little sigh as they start moving toward the main street. "Besides," she continues, kicking her feet up against the dash, "I hate lemons. I wouldn't like it." 

He blinks, "Oh." 

"Yeah, _oh_ ," she snorts. 

"More for you and me then, little man," Wasabi adds, eyeing him in the rear-view mirror with his dark brown irises. "Just, you know, not in my car." 

Hiro feels himself smile, his lips turning up at their edges as he leans back in his seat. He's not nearly as excited as he was before, but he's still unbelievably satisfied with his ugly, misshapen pie. He doesn't remember ever being this happy about anything that wasn't robotics related, "Then when we get back to the apartment?"

Wasabi shrugs, carefully merging onto the highway, "Sure."

"No," GoGo says. She and Wasabi share a look that Hiro chooses not to interpret before GoGo continues, "You have to eat dinner first. I'll make you some stir fry or something."

"Yes, _mother_."

"Don't push it, Hamada." She gives him _the look_ and he feels himself smiling cheekily back, resisting the urge to stick out his tongue. His foot press, press, presses against the back of her chair and she swats at him playfully. It still stings, but... well, GoGo could do way more damage if she wanted to. 

"So," Wasabi says, letting the word roll off the tip of his tongue, “I take it class went well?” 

He pulls his leg away from GoGo’s swatting hand and folds it underneath himself, carefully maneuvering the pie out of harm’s way. “It went okay,” he shrugs, going for cool and nonchalant, but the way his lips quirk and his shoulders straighten more than give him away.

“No guy troubles,” GoGo asks. 

Wasabi sputters at the wheel, “Guy troubles?”

Hiro blinks at him strangely before shrugging again, his smile widening at the edges, “Nope.” 

“Nope?”

“Seriously, what guy troubles,” Wasabi continues. He turns to GoGo, “When did this become something we had to worry about?”

She pats his arm consolingly before twisting around in her seat, “So, you were worried about nothing.” 

Chocolate brown eyes roll, “Well,  _no_ , not exactly. It was really weird that he knew all the answers to the questions yesterday and it at least  _looked_ like he knew what he was doing today.” He took a moment to remember the way Dashi’s chocolate cake rested on the cooling rack and the way Honey Lemon eyed it before taking a bite, snickering at the memory before continuing excitedly, “But he can’t _cook!_  At all. Everything he makes looks great, but it’s _awful_. This is, like, his third time taking the class!”

Bushy brown eyebrows furrow, “Isn’t that kind of sad though? I mean, at least he’s trying.” 

Hiro frowns, thumbs running along the rough edges of the pie tin. His toes curl in his sneakers. “Well, yeah,” he concedes, nibbling at his lower lip, “But, everybody has to be bad at something. And I highly doubt that guy is ever going to have a need to cook for himself.” Judging from what he’s seen, guys like him with their broad shoulders and strong chins— they have people more than willing to do it for them. 

“You never know, Hiro,” Wasabi shrugs, drumming against the steering wheel at a stoplight, taking a moment to glance back at him.

“But—”

“Wasabi’s right.” 

“ _Guys_ ,” he groans, “can’t you just let me have my moment, please?” 

“Nope,” she pops the ‘p’, “Now, be still or you’ll get flour all over Wasabi’s backseat.” 

“What? I thought you said they wore aprons? Come on, not in my car!” 

Hiro smirks, “Actually, it’s cornstarch.” 

 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

I̶'̶m̶ ̶f̶u̶n̶n̶y̶,̶ ̶r̶i̶g̶h̶t̶?̶ ̶R̶i̶g̶h̶t̶?̶?̶?̶?̶

Pff~ no. I warned you all in June when I alluded to this story that my humor was lame. You should've come prepared. (Except you probably weren't expecting this level of lame. So, yeah~ Sorry. At least I didn't kill anyone, right? ^^;)

Anyway, this is another practice piece for me, so I'm going to be attempting to woo you all with my lame humor for another two chapters or so. This is my first time attempting to write comedy, as well as my first time writing from Hiro's perspective, so please let me know what you think on those points. This is also another practice in present tense and dialogue.

Comments are welcomed and responded to! I'd love to hear your thoughts! =)


	2. Chicken Flavored Surprises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re sulking.”
> 
> She says it like it’s an observational fact, standing directly in front of him with one of her prototype wheels propped against her hip. Two twin almond brown eyes narrow and he vaguely wonders if she’s going to bop with over the head with it. It wouldn’t be the first time— or the eighth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote the first three parts of this chapter four times over the last few days. On the plus side, I'm pretty sure my words per minute count went up. On the downside, my poor fingers will never recover.

Two weeks later, Hiro finds himself behind his work station again, his slender fingers drum, drum, drumming on the steel surface. His laminated nametag rhythmically taps against the table’s edge and his heels bounce up and down in anticipation. A closed picnic basket sits innocently in front of him, the handle adorned with an oversized yellow bow. Chocolate brown eyes narrow at it.

He is _so_ ready.

“All right, class, I know we went over this briefly yesterday, but I’ll clarify it again,” Honey Lemon states in her best I-am-your-teacher voice as she begins to pace back and forth at the front of the room. Her heels click against the tile as she moves, her pretty green eyes glancing at them each individually from behind her magenta-rimmed glasses before moving on, “In front of each of you is a picnic basket that contains five ingredients. In order to pass your midterm and subsequently, the class, you must combine those five ingredients into one full meal within the next hour and a half.

“You may use any additional items that you’d like, but removing an item will result in an automatic deduction of twenty percent of your grade for each item you remove. They’re not just there to take up space; I expect to see them on the plate. Likewise, undercooked or improperly cooked ingredients will result in a larger percent deduction, depending on the quality.

“I will be available to answer individual questions during the test, but I will not cook your items for you or give any instructions on how to do so. Now,” her pink lips curve into a smile, “have at it and have fun! Timer starts now!”

Hiro jumps forward just as the buzzer echoes through the room, his hips pressing against the table as he drags the picnic basket closer, ripping through the yellow bow with barely contained exuberance. His fingers shake as he pulls out his ingredients.

“Chicken,” he mumbles to himself as he lifts out two carefully wrapped boneless breasts and sets them to the side, “Okay, that’s easy. We made chicken last week.” And they did. His came out kind of weird and crusty and almost as dry as sawdust, but the sauce made it delicious and he knows the basics if nothing else. He didn’t poison anyone with it anyway.

Besides, GoGo even ate it without telling him it looked funny. It was an occasion.

Excitedly, he continues, “Swiss cheese… I can work with that. Breadcrumbs are harder because they don’t _stay_ , but doable. Are those green beans? I think they’re green beans. I mean, they’re green and vaguely bean shaped— so, yeah. Green beans it is. Okay, okay, and… _ham_?”

“What is this,” he grumbles as he pulls it out, scrunching his nose at the small rectangular chunks. He didn’t need to ask; he knows exactly what it is: Ham, ham, _ham_ (aka: the grossest).

He pulls his bottom lip into his mouth and begins to worry it between his teeth. What is he supposed to do with chicken _and_ ham? They’re both major meat products, which they most certainly have not gone over how to deal with yet (unless they went over it last week while he was half asleep. Admittedly, he was blinking in and out for about an hour of that class period, but… clearly, that’s not the problem here), and on top of that, he doesn’t even _like_ ham! How’s he supposed to _cook_ the stuff if he does not _eat_ the stuff?

He frowns and thumbs at his nametag, twirling it around and around his fingers while he takes a moment to glance around the room, his shoulders tensing. Some students are already gathering supplementary ingredients from the pantry, but the greatest majority of them are still at their tables, so he’s not behind yet. He doesn’t have any idea as to what he’s supposed to do, but he’s not last and he’s not the worst and no one’s looking at him and laughing and—

_“Hey, little man.”_

_“Hmm,” fifteen-year-old Hiro murmurs from his spot on the floor, his fingers caught deep within the bowels of his robotic mechanic prototype, the small figure built to weave in and out of car engines to realign loose machinery. Or, at least, that’s what it’s **supposed** to do. It’s a final project grade for his mechanical engineering class that’s due in three days, but as it stands right now, it can barely recognize a car, let alone the fine pieces of equipment that keep one running. _

_“Have you been here all night,” Wasabi asks from above him, frowning when Hiro just gives a noncommittal shrug, a screwdriver perched precariously in his mouth. The older man sighs, “Well, let up for a minute. I brought you dinner.”_

_Hiro spits the tool into his lap and scowls, “No thanks. I’m fine.”_

_“Come on, man, you’ve gotta eat sometime. Now’s a good a time as any.”_

_One slender hand yanks itself away from the knotted circuits in his lap to run raggedly through his hair in frustration— the stupid piece of **junk**! Why won’t it just **work** already?! “I can’t! I’ve got to finish this because it’s due and I’m behind in my theory class and— what the hell is wrong with it?”_

_Hiro finishes with a glare at his unfinished project and Wasabi raises his eyebrows, “Ooookay. You’re done.” In an uncharacteristic display of spontaneity, he sinks to the floor beside him and takes his equipment away, barely even flinching at the spit-coated tool._

_“Hey! Didn’t you hear me,” Hiro squawks at him, reaching for it with his shaking fingers and his sleep deprived eyes._

_Wasabi grabs his hand and places a Tupperware in it instead. Hiro blinks stupidly at it. “Eat first and then I’ll decide if you can have your stuff back.”_

_“They’re mine. You can’t just take them away; I’m not a little kid.” The whine in his voice says otherwise._

_Wasabi gives him a look that clearly says that he doesn’t believe him before rolling his broad shoulders, “Don’t make me sic GoGo on you, Hiro. I’m not above it.”_

_“It’s eleven already. She’s not here,” Hiro sticks his tongue out at him, but his tired hands begin to pull at the Tupperware’s lid nonetheless._

_“But she does have a cellphone and I have a feeling that she won’t be yelling at me. Now, **eat**.”_

_“Yeah, yeah. I’m eating it. Chill,” he pulls the lid off and makes a face, his nose scrunching, “Ewww, is this ham?”_

_A long suffering sigh, “You’re impossible, you know that?”_

He starts, his eyebrows furrowing just slightly as he glances at the ingredients on the table. Hiro vaguely remembers Wasabi bringing him a dinner once that was made up of some type of chicken with a bunch of different cheeses stuffed inside of it. He was half asleep and a little more than frustrated at the time, but he _knows_ there was ham too. He’d pushed all the nasty little chunks of it to the side.

That could work.

That could totally, _totally_ work.

Hiro takes a moment to start preheating the oven before sprinting off to the pantry, weaving in between the other students and grabbing what he needs. By the time he gets back to his station, ten full minutes have passed. Honey smiles at him from her spot at the front.

Knife in hand with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, he grins back.

Forty minutes later, his chicken is browning away in the oven with bits of the ham sprinkled over top, his green beans are just beginning to steam on the stovetop, and he couldn’t be happier, gathering his used dishes into a pile so he can take them to the sink at the back of the class to be washed. Hiro pulls them into his arms and turns on his heel before stopping, his head tilting slightly to the side.

The picnic basket at Dashi’s station hasn’t been touched.

He’s been resolutely ignoring the man for the past two weeks, but he takes a moment to seek him out amongst his classmates, glancing this way and that before once again settling on the closed basket, tied up securely with an obnoxiously glittery pink bow.

Dashi’s never missed a class before.

Hiro knows this because, every day, Dashi would come in just a moment or two after him and greet him with a smile and a _“Good morning”_ or a _“How are you?,”_ and Hiro would scoff and roll his eyes. It was almost tradition at this point. And when Dashi didn’t greet him today, Hiro just assumed it was because Wasabi dropped him off later than usual.

Huh. Well, it’s not like he missed the greeting or anything. It’s probably best that the guy isn’t around anyway.

And of course, just as he moves to turn away, Mr. Soup himself rushes through the door, the little bell jingling in his wake, “I’m so sorry I’m late, Honey. Mie—”

Hiro snorts. Speak of the devil and he shall appear. Or something like that.

He rolls his eyes and hmphs to himself, holding his dishes more securely in his arms and stomping back toward the sink. Great. Fantastic. Just when he realized that the guy was gone and could have started _enjoying_ his absence, he shows up. Figures. He rolls his chocolate brown irises again for good measure and dumps everything into the sink, flicking on the facet with slightly more force than necessary.

“Excuse me?”

He growls under his breath. His shoulders tense and he stubbornly glares straight ahead, “What?”

It’s not a kind word.

“I, umm— I know you’re, uh, busy, but can I— can I use the sink for a minute,” Dashi asks hesitantly from beside him, his voice quiet. He sounds tired; Hiro blinks at the facet like that will tell him why. “Sorry. I mean, I know you were here first, but I really—”

“Here,” Hiro cuts him off with gritted teeth, stepping back angrily. He crosses his arms in front of his chest and scowls, but Dashi just sends him a tight smile in response and immediately moves to wash his hands.

Hiro narrows his eyes at his back, his inky black eyebrows furrowing just slightly. Dashi was late to class. He was late and now he’s in the way and Hiro’s letting him walk all over him— and it’s almost like high school all over again except he’s more than half a foot taller and twenty pounds heavier. But, Dashi doesn’t just _sound_ tired; he _looks_ tired too, his normally broad shoulders hunched inward and his usually pristine clothes haphazardly thrown together.

It doesn’t make sense. And is that grease that he’s washing off his fingers and out from under his nails?

His eyes widen and he shuffles forward to take a closer look before jumping away when Dashi turns back around, frantically trying to mold himself back into position with his arms crossed and his lips turned downward into a glower.

“Umm,” Dashi trails, his coffee-colored irises just a little unfocused, blinking down at him questioningly. There are deep-rooted bags underneath his eyes, slightly puffy and almost purple, like he hasn’t been getting nearly enough sleep. He cracks an unsure grin anyway, “Thanks.”

“Yeah, well, you’re welcome,” he snarls under his breath as he hastily marches back toward his station.

He’ll get his dishes later when his face isn’t so stupidly warm.

Hiro checks on his food and removes the green beans from the heat as soon as he gets back, his sneakers tap, tap, tapping against the tile while he waits for the chicken to finish. Wordlessly, he glances at the clock at the front of the room; he still has plenty of time. He stares at the covered chicken in the oven and then at the stove before switching to the dish he has ready for plating. A crash sounds to his left and he swivels towards it.

Dashi again. He dropped his phone.

He scrunches his nose with a scowl and turns back to his own work, busying himself with removing his meats from the oven. They’re not even supposed to have their phones out; serves him right.

But…

He nibbles on his bottom lip, fingering his nametag as soon as his food is safely cooling on the stovetop. Chocolate brown irises discreetly travel back to Dashi’s station. And he seems… worn out. Maybe a little more than tired, all hunched over his table with his lips set in a light frown, his knuckles whitening against his grip on the steel edge. There’s too much tension in his shoulders and the lines around his mouth are deeper than they should be on a man his age, stressed and frazzled and completely and totally _lost_.

Dashi has no idea what to do with the items in his basket.

And a part of Hiro, the part of him that wants to get some sort of revenge on all the guys that used to trash his textbooks and trip him in the halls, wants to watch him fail. He’s _glad_ that Dashi doesn’t know what to do and that he’s tired and unhappy. Good. Great. _Fantastic_. Let someone else be the odd one out for a change. It might as well be the guy that probably has it all elsewhere, right?

Right.

No, no, _no_. That’s not right. That’s not _right_ at all.

His stomach feels sick and his throat fills with bile, because that’s wrong. And he knows it is. GoGo would _kill_ him if she heard something like that coming out of his mouth.

Not that he would ever say anything like that aloud, because the other part of him, the larger part that sometimes makes him do stupid things, has him stepping forward and awkwardly clearing his throat. Dashi blinks at him wearily. He looks like he’s preparing for a blow, “…yes?”

“You can, umm,” Hiro swallows and knots his fingers in his nametag’s thread, determinedly watching the way the purple string runs across the slender digits. He tries again, “The cranberries? Yeah, umm, you can use those as a sauce for the pork. You just reduce the berries and then sauté the pork with that and some butter and— and, uh, yeah.”  

He says the last of it to his shoes, his voice coming out in a low mumble and his shoulders hunched almost completely inward, but Dashi sighs in relief, an oversized grin spreading across his lips, “Oh man, thank you. You’re a lifesaver.”

“ _Actually_ , I’m a gummy bear,” Hiro quips in an effort to hide the fact that his cheeks are reddening, shyly pulling at his nametag and glossing over the name with his thumb.

Dashi blinks— once, twice, three times— before he laughs. And it’s deep and rumbling and—

Hiro turns away, biting into his lower lip to keep himself from smiling along. He does not like Dashi. He does not care that he has a nice laugh or that he’s had a rough day. He does not want him to greet him at the beginning of class and he definitely, _definitely_ does not care if he does well or not.

He only helped him to make himself feel better. Honestly. That’s all it was.

Hiro’s not denying anything.

____

“You’re sulking.”

She says it like it’s an observational fact, standing directly in front of him with one of her prototype wheels propped against her hip. Two twin almond brown eyes narrow and he vaguely wonders if she’s going to bop with over the head with it. It wouldn’t be the first time— or the eighth.

“I’m not sulking,” Hiro states matter-of-factly, straightening his back for good measure. Because, yeah, okay, maybe he was a _little_ slouched over in his chair and maybe he has been a _little_ quiet today. That does not mean he’s sulking. He was just _thinking_. It’s entirely different.

“Fine,” one pink bubble pops and GoGo stares down at him, “you’re pouting then.”

He puffs out his cheeks and glares up at her, “I’m not pouting either.”

She waits a moment— one beat, two— before, “Yep. You’re pouting.”

His lips turn downward into a frown and he opens his mouth to repeat himself, but he recognizes the _see-you’re-doing-exactly-what-I-said-you-were-doing_ look on her face, so he switches tactics. “Do you ever listen to me when I talk,” he asks instead, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest. He sets his mouth in a thin line and furrows his brows. He’s going for unamused with maybe a touch of leave-me-alone. 

GoGo snorts. Evidently, he needs to work on his technique.

“Sometimes,” she acquiesces with a shrug, setting the wheel to the side, “When you’re not lying.”

“I told you, I’m _fine_.”

GoGo mimics his position, her pink lips pulled into a disbelieving frown, “Okay, then, Mr. I’m _Fine_ — you mind telling me what that’s supposed to be then?”

She rather nonchalantly gestures to the prototype he’s been working on all morning that’s sitting innocently on his desk. Hiro’s eyes follow her movement and he frowns, tilting his head slightly to the side. He’s been making robotic dogs lately— just a little something to pass the time while his master’s thesis project is still being reviewed by the board— and the prototype that he’s been building over the last three weeks definitely _looked_ like the beginnings of a dog when he came in this morning.

Admittedly, it looks a little less so now.

But he shrugs it off and knots his fingers together in his lap, “GoGo, that’s obviously a dinosaur. What did you think I was building?” He flashes her his cheekiest smile.

She doesn’t buy it and he deflates in his chair, sinking downward. It _was_ a bit of a stretch, but he shoots the contraption an exaggerated glare anyway.

Betrayed by his own robotic pet. He’ll not-so-affectionately call it Rex.

“So,” GoGo trails, quirking an eyebrow at him, “you want to try that again?” Her foot tap, tap, taps against the finished concrete floor.

His fingers squeeze together in his lap and he glances down and back up again. Briefly, he wonders if this is the feeling that the deer that get caught in headlights have right before they meet their rather unfortunate end before— oh. He smirks, a devious glint in his chocolate brown eyes.

She follows his gaze and scowls, “Don’t do it.”

“ _Wasabi_ ,” he calls, raising his voice so it will reverberate across the lab, “GoGo called me a _liar_.”

“Real mature, Hamada.”

He sticks his tongue out at her and rolls his chair closer to the center of the room, the heels of his sneakers pushing off of the concrete.

“How old are you again,” GoGo grumbles, following behind him on foot, “Five or six? Is it about naptime, Panda Eyes?”

“GoGo, play nice with Hiro, please,” Wasabi requests from his station in the corner of the room, barely even bothering to look up from his lab notebook.

“ _Ha_. Wasabi’s on my side.”

GoGo gives him _the look_. “I’m not above hitting you,” she deadpans.

She isn’t. Hiro is well aware of that fact, but he twists in his seat anyway, shirking away from her, “Wasabi, GoGo’s threatening to hit me now!”

“Violence isn’t the answer, GoGo,” Wasabi drones, carefully finishing the last of his work.

Hiro sticks his tongue out again and GoGo gives him the single most apathetic look he’s ever been on the receiving end of. It’s fairly impressive.

“This is ridiculous,” she says and from the way her eyes narrow, she means it. Hiro’s mouth opens and shuts with an audible click and he shrinks back in his chair, nervously scuffing the toe of his shoe along the ground. And sure, GoGo’s his friend— his best friend in the whole wide world even— but he doesn’t really want to talk about it. At least, not right now— not before he’s figured it out for himself.

She sighs, “You want to tell me why you’re pouting now?”

“I _told_ you, I’m not _pouting_ ,” he huffs in a last ditch effort to get her off his back, exasperated because this is stupid and he doesn’t even know _why_ he’s feeling this way.

“Uh huh.”

“I hate to tell you this, little man, but you’ve been pouting since I picked you up from your cooking class last night,” Wasabi pipes in, carefully placing his lab notebook into his bag and moving to stand a little closer.

Hiro scowls at him. The traitor.

“And where were you with that information five minutes ago,” GoGo asks, her arms over her chest.

“Stress testing,” he states like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “I thought you already knew.”

One thin black eyebrow arches and she shakes her head. She turns back to Hiro with a quirk in her lips like she’s biting the inside of her cheek, “ _So_ , I take it class didn’t go well then?”

“No— I mean, yeah, class was fine, just—,” he cuts himself off with a frown, slumping deeper into his chair. “I don’t know.” And he doesn’t.

He doesn’t like not knowing things.

His friends share a quick glance at one another before Wasabi steps forward, “Well, you said you got your midterm grade back on Saturday. You were excited about that, right?” Dark brown eyes glance at GoGo as if for confirmation. She nods.

And Hiro just shrugs, “Yeah. I mean, it went great. I had one of the best grades in the class.” Not _the_ best because his improvised version of chick cordon bleu wasn’t exactly _pretty_ , but close enough. To be honest, he’s still happy that the squishy looking lump he’d pulled out of the oven turned out edible. He didn’t remember the dish Wasabi giving him looking like something that came out of a preschooler’s Easy-Bake Oven.

“Well, the cooking’s clearly not the problem,” GoGo states. She takes a moment to look him up and down before her eyes light up, “Oh. Having guy troubles again?”

Wasabi sputters, “What? I thought you said we didn’t have to worry about that!”

“I may have made a mistake,” GoGo deadpans.

Hiro blinks at them. His head tilts slightly to the side, “Am I missing something…?”

Wasabi opens his mouth to reply, but GoGo cuts him off with a consoling pat on his arm, “No, you’re fine. So, guy troubles? Having problems with Mr. Soup again?”

“Wait, his name is Mr. Soup?”

“I’ll explain later. Hiro?”

“Not really,” Hiro frowns, scrunching his nose. And therein lies the problem. He hasn’t even _seen_ Dashi in over a week, but he’s been having difficulty getting him out of his head since the midterm. At first, Hiro thought it was because he helped him cheat on a test— _technically_ speaking anyway— and that he probably just felt bad about it, but…

Sometimes over the week, when he wasn’t paying attention, he caught himself thinking about the bags underneath Dashi’s eyes and how tired he looked. And it was stupid, really. He doesn’t usually think about those types of things. “I mean,” he continues, “he wasn’t even there this week.”

“Yeah,” Wasabi questions, “Then, you should be happy, right? I thought you didn’t like him.”

“Well, I mean— I don’t, I guess,” Hiro shrugs. 

They stay in silence for a moment before GoGo states simply, “You’re worried about him.”

“ _No_ ,” he squawks. His face is red, but he doesn’t think it’s a lie, his mouth moving just a little too quickly, “I’m not _worried_. It was just weird— I don’t know. He was late before then he missed class two days in a row and— I don’t like change, okay?”

He runs his hands through his hair in frustration and two sets of brown irises share a look that Hiro refuses to interpret. An elongated sigh falls passed his lips, “Can we talk about something else please?”

It sounds like he’s begging. It’s probably because he is.

“Hiro, you sho—”

“Sure,” GoGo says easily, cutting Wasabi off without so much as a flinch. “How about you explain those panda eyes instead? You promised me you’d sleep over the weekend.”

Hiro shrinks in his chair, “Well, you see, I was— yeah.”

“Come on, little man, those don’t look healthy. A balanced schedule will hel—”

“You _promised_ me you would go to bed, Hiro.”

“ _Guys_! Why do you hate me?”

Sometimes, Hiro wishes he had different friends.

Except he really doesn’t.

_____

“You need the dumplings to come out light and fluffy, Gummy Bear, so you don’t have to mix them so hard. That will pull all the air out of them.”

It’s a gentle reprimand, but his grip immediately loosens around the whisk in his hand. The instrument falls lightly against the side of the mixing bowl and Hiro slowly lifts his head to blink at Honey Lemon. Her pretty green eyes flutter at him and there’s a smile pulling at her lips, but he feels himself shrink back anyway. His shoulders hunch inward and he takes a moment to look down at the milky white substance that he’s been furiously stirring for the past several minutes. He stares stupidly at it, nibbling on his lower lip.

It’s mush. He doesn’t think it’s supposed to be mush.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, his mouth falling into a frown as he distances himself from the bowl. He likes Honey and he doesn’t _think_ she’s mad at him, but he hates himself for still messing things up. It’s their fifth week out of six and while everything he makes tastes okay, it still doesn’t look right. He feels like he should have fixed this problem by now. “I guess I— I wasn’t paying enough attention.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” Honey reassures with such understanding that Hiro almost, _almost_ thinks it really is. “Everyone does that sometimes, even me! Especially me, actually.”

His brows furrow and he opens his mouth before he can stop himself, “But you’re such a good cook!”

And then immediately snaps it closed when she barks out a laugh, burning red running along his neck and searing his ears. He feels something unpleasant settle in his gut as she laughs and nearly turns to leave before she smiles and reaches across the table to ruffle his hair.

He almost flinches.

“Aww, that’s so sweet of you to say,” she coos— and he notices that her cheeks are slightly pink too, the color magnified by her magenta-rimmed glasses. It makes him feel a little better. “But,” she continues, her small nose scrunching cutely as she leans across the table in a way that’s almost conspiratorial, “I’ve been cooking for years and I still mess up all the time. In fact, when my abuela first started teaching me how to cook, it was an absolute _disaster_. She actually banned me from her kitchen once!”

“I don’t believe that,” he says weakly, knotting his fingers together underneath the table and trying to smile back at her.

“Oh, I may or may not have been a little more interested in chemistry than cooking at the time,” she waggles her eyebrows and surprisingly, he has to bite his tongue to keep himself from laughing at the image. She shrugs, “All I can say is that you’d be surprised by what a few extra ingredients stuffed in a batch of cupcakes can do to the inside of an oven.”

“Nothing good?”

“My family and I have an agreement not to talk about it,” Honey says, quirking her lips to the side, her bright green eyes alight with untold mischief. Carefully, she straightens herself out again and smooths her yellow top, “Luckily, though, my abuela’s a forgiving woman and she had me back in her kitchen within the month. Everything I know I learned from her.

“And one lesson that I definitely took to heart is that you can always start over if you mess up. So,” she gently grabs the bowl from in front of him and pulls it to her chest, “I’ll take care of this and you can get started on take two, yeah?”

“Yeah, I’ll, uh, do that,” he smiles and she leans forward to ruffle his hair again. He doesn’t even think about flinching this time— and when she turns to walk away, he finds his voice again, his words coming out in a rush so he can’t take them back, “You’re a good teacher too, so, umm, t-thanks.”

He feels like an idiot as soon as he says it, and she twists back towards him, her long blonde hair swish, swish, swishing along with her ruffled skirt. Her pink lips part as if to speak before—

“Aww, looks like you’ve got an _admirer_ , Honey.”

And it doesn’t _sound_ like a taunt, but it’s certainly worded like one and Hiro can feel his gut twist into a knot and anxiety pour through his veins, that familiar red heat crawling along his skin. He pulls his sleeves down in discomfort.

But Dashi just smiles at the two of them, standing behind his station with his hands trapped in a bowl of ground beef. Hiro was _almost_ happy to see him walk in the door this afternoon. Now, he wishes he hadn’t.

Honey, though, takes his words in stride, her hip cocking to the side and one of her carefully plucked eyebrows raising, “Hush, you. Some of my students actually _learn_ when I teach them.”

And Hiro expects Dashi to get mad like all the other guys like him when they get told off by a pretty girl that knows what she’s doing. He expects him to flex his muscles and puff up his chest and _scream_ , but he doesn’t. He doesn’t do any of that. Instead, unnaturally, impossibly— he _laughs_ , “Hey, we can’t all be the best at everything.”

“Maybe you can’t,” Honey admits, shrugging her shoulders, “But I, on the other hand, am _fabulous_ at everything.”

There’s a teasing lilt in her voice that Dashi responds to, “Oh, are you now?”

“Of course I am,” she states matter-of-factly, a smug little scrunch in her nose as she flips her hair over her shoulder, “Why else would you keep coming back?”

“Well, you are letting me take your class for free, so…,” Dashi shrugs, his lips pulled upwards into a cheeky smile.

She snorts, “ _Shhh_. I thought I told you to hush.”

“My mistake, _Professor_.”

Dashi lowers himself into a mock bow and Honey Lemon laughs outright, shaking her head. Hiro just stares at them, his chocolate brown eyes travelling from one to the other indecisively, trying to decide if he feels more embarrassed or left out. He thinks the not-quite-jab was meant for Honey and not him, but his heart’s still thump, thump, thumping in his chest and his fingers are still shaking and—

“Clearly,” Honey acquiesces, “Now, the both of you,” she shoots Hiro a smile, “should get back to work. There’s a little less than an hour left of class today and neither one of you are anywhere near done. I am still grading you, you know.”

And with that, she walks away. Dashi childishly sticks his tongue out at her back and Hiro turns his attention back to his station, tense and a little unsure now because that wasn’t how those conversations are supposed to go and he’s not quite sure of what to make of it. In fact, he’s not at all sure of what to make of Dashi anyway. He doesn’t act at all like experience has told Hiro that he should.

His nice-guy smile might actually be because he’s a _nice guy_.

He shakes the thought away before it can fully form. It doesn’t compute.

“Hey, uh… Gummy Bear?”

His fingers tighten their grip around his second mixing bowl until his knuckles are white, a strange pool of uncertainty knotting in his gut. He swallows, “Yeah?”

“I’m sorry if we— if _I_ made you uncomfortable,” Dashi says and Hiro turns so fast his neck creaks in protest. Coffee-colored irises blink at him sheepishly, “It’s just that Honey and I’ve known each other for a long time, so I kind of do things like that to her without thinking. So, umm, yeah. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“It’s, uh— it’s fine,” Hiro stutters weakly, shrugging his shoulders. He stares back down at his table and knots his fingers into his sleeves. “I mean, I’m not— I’m not, like, _mad_ or anything. You were just talking.”

“Yeah, but…,” Dashi trails, and Hiro can practically hear the gears whirling in his head, “Well, if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” He hates himself for snapping immediately after he does, guilt tugging heavily on his chest. “Just, we— we should finish cooking.”

His words come out harsher than he intends them to and despite the fact that he’s not looking, he can feel the way that Dashi’s staring at him, his head tilted slightly in confusion. But, mercifully, he lets the conversation end there, turning back to his own dish in silence.

And Hiro spends the next ten minutes beating a new batch of dumplings to death.

It’s fine. He’s pretty sure this is all their fault anyway.

_____

Fourteen hours before his cooking final is scheduled to start, Hiro is pacing his minuscule kitchen with his phone pressed against his ear, his free hand alternating between tearing at his hair and relocating different half-finished dishes.

He may or may not be panicking.

But it’s fairly likely that he is, because today’s the last day he’s going to have to get it right and no matter what he does, he can’t make anything _look_ good. It all tastes fine, but when it comes to plating and presentation? He’s the _worst in the class_. His chicken looks like a lump that came out of a kid’s craft zone. His vegetables always come out looking like mulch. And his seafood? His one lone foray into seafood came out looking like he scorched the shrimp, which didn’t even make sense because the shrimp was only boiling for two minutes. _Two minutes_.

And yeah, sure— Honey says the taste is always fine. Everything he’s made has come out with nearly top marks, but not _the_ top because they lose points for presentation and he wants those points! He _needs_ those points because without them— without them, he’s practically failing. And he’s not just talking about the class.

_Brrriiiinnggggg… Brrriiiinnggggg… Brrriiiinnggggg…_

“Come on,” he urges, anxiously knotting his slender fingers in his oversized shirt sleeves, “Just pick up your phone. Pick up, pick up, pick up!”

_Brrriiiinnggggg… Brrriiiinn—_

_“’lo?”_

“GoGo! Hi! Oh man, thank god you picked up! I need help— Not like _help-help_ please call 9-1-1 because I cracked my head in the shower again, but like— just regular help. Because I— I mean, I was practicing and then everything was— but it was still _wrong_! And Honey’s going to count me off if it doesn’t look right! So, I kept going and now, now— I’m out of eggs and onions and— and _flour_! I’m out of everything, GoGo! What am I supposed to do?”

His voice comes out in one big rush and by the end of it, he’s panting for breath, his chocolate brown irises dancing around his kitchen where bowls and utensils and almost every other dish he owns are scattered on the counters— and the floor! Why are they on the floor? That’s unsanitary! He’s going to fail that part of his written test!

Frantically, he starts picking them up and pushing them onto the counter, taking the person on the other line’s momentary silence as permission to continue, “And I would go get everything myself because the store— the corner one is just right there but I don’t have a car and— and I can’t carry everything by myself! There’d be multi— multi— _a lot_ of trips and what about the cold stuff? It might spoil and then it would a wast— Gaah!”  

He lets out a yelp, and pulls back, momentarily startled as he cradles his hand against his chest. A ruby red blister is already forming. _Oh…_ , he realizes belatedly, _the pan was still hot_.

 _“Hiro,”_ the person on the phone says sternly, _“I need you to stop whatever you’re doing right now, okay? Can you do that for me, little man?”_

Hiro blinks, staring around his kitchen as if he’s in a daze. He’s not sure when the last time he slept was. He just knows it hasn’t happened in a while. “Wasabi?”

_“Yeah, it’s me. Are you sitting down right now?”_

He leans back against the cabinets and sinks down onto the tiles. He takes a moment to look at the stove above him and shrugs to himself; his legs are shaking. “I’m on the floor,” he says at length.

_“Oh, that is so gross. Can’t you— Nevermind. Ignore that. So, you’re sitting down. Are you calm?”_

“I’m… okay,” he mumbles. His injured hand is trembling in his lap and he can feel nervous energy pumping through his veins, but he’s better. A little less worked up than he was a few moments ago.

 _“All right. That’s really good, Hiro,”_ Wasabi reassures him, _“Now, are you hurt anywhere? It sounded like you hurt yourself.”_

“I burned my hand,” Hiro murmurs quietly. Wasabi stays silent on the other end of the phone, so he continues, his shoulders deflating and his knees coming up to his chin, “’t’s not bad.”

A sigh, _“That’s okay. If you need anything for it, I put a first aid kit under your bathroom sink when you moved in, remember?”_

Hiro doesn’t and a moment of silence passes between them. He feels stupid. He has no idea what time it is, he’s exhausted, and it’s just a couple of points. A couple of points that he _wants_ , but… He shouldn’t have called.

 _“Hiro? You still with me, buddy?”_ He makes a little noise of acknowledgement and Wasabi continues, _“Will you explain why you called again? I missed most of it.”_

“I was cooking,” Hiro frowns, his hand clenching and unclenching around his phone as he leans back against the cabinets, “I mean, I was practicing for the final tomorrow— later? But— but, I don’t know.” He sighs, “I’m sorry for calling.”

“ _No, no— it’s fine. I was there when GoGo told you to call her if you needed anything, so it’s not a problem.”_

“Yeah, but I still—,” he stops, his brows furrowing, “GoGo. I was calling GoGo. You’re not GoGo.”

“ _Not the last time I checked, no. I’m not.”_

“But you’re on GoGo’s phone,” Hiro says plainly, confused, “Why did you answer GoGo’s phone?”

“ _She’s asleep right now, Hiro, and I didn’t want the noise to wake her up,”_ Wasabi states like he’s speaking to a child. _“It’s almost four in the morning.”_

“Oh,” he blinks, and his eyes are heavier than he remembers them being a few moments ago. He’s almost positive that he started studying around seven last night. Has it already been so long? (The state of his kitchen screams a resounding _yes_ ). “Then why are you at GoGo’s so early?”

_“I’m not at Go—”_

**_“—water’s getting warm so you might as well swim. My world’s on fire. How about yours? That’s—”_ **

_“What is that?”_

Hiro takes a moment to glance up at the counter and flicks the stop button on his microwave, “The microwave’s singing again. It’s fine.”

_“Oh. I thought you fixed that.”_

“I keep forgetting.” Maybe one day he’ll let it finish its song.

_“Well, yeah. Okay. Doesn’t matter. As I was saying, I’m not at GoGo’s. She’s at my apartment.”_

“Oh,” he says again for lack of anything else to say, weariness slowly seeping into his bones, the adrenaline rush from before almost completely gone now that he’s still. Carefully, he lays on his side, the tile cool beneath his feverish skin. “Why is she there so early?”

 _“She slept here, Hiro,”_ A pause _, “Please don’t tell me I have to explain this.”_

“Have to explain what…,” he asks sleepily, squinting at the spaghetti noodles that are hiding underneath his oven. He doesn’t remember making spaghetti. Whatever. He’ll get them tomorrow— or possibly never. “You’re friends. GoGo sleeps here sometimes too.”

_“I really do have to explain this, don’t I? I told GoGo we should’ve done it sooner! Together— take him out to a nice dinner, break the news then when he’s calm and we can ease him into it, but nooooo, that would’ve been too unnatural! ‘He’ll figure it out on his own,’ she says! Clearly not!”_

Hiro scrunches his nose, frowning, “Wasabi?”

 _“Uh, okay. We’re doing this, then. Listen, little man. GoGo stays at my apartment a lot. And I stay at her apartment a lot,”_ Wasabi says, enunciating clearly, _“We also go out to dinner sometimes. And to the movies.”_

“Well, yeah,” he agrees, “We do movie nights all the time.”

_“Oh— that is— that’s not what I meant. I mean, yeah— we do that too, but sometimes, GoGo and I just go to the movies together, okay?”_

“Okay,” Hiro questions, confused. Part of him feels vaguely left out at the notion, but the rest of him is just too tired to really deal with this right now.

_“And we do it because we enjoy each other’s company and—”_

_“Who’re you talkin’ to,”_ A groggy voice cuts in.

_“Hiro. He was in panic mode. Something about cooking practice. But, uh, we’re good now. Crisis averted.”_

_“Then what are you doing?”_

_“Well, umm— you see—”_

Hiro frowns, rolling into a more comfortable position on the floor as his friends bicker back and forth with words he can’t hear. He can almost reach the spaghetti noodles from this position. He doesn’t bother trying to get them.

 “ _You still there, Hamada?”_

“GoGo? Yeah. ‘m here.”

_“Good. Wasabi and I are dating. Dinner, movies, sex— the whole shebang. Any questions?”_

“Since _when_ ,” he squawks.

_“I thought we **just** agreed to ease him into it?”_

_“Oh, like that was working so well before.”_

_“But, he—”_

_“It’s been almost two years, Hiro. It wasn’t a secret; you’re just oblivious,”_ GoGo says, quick and to the point. And while her words are sharp, they’re not unkind. _“Now that that’s out of the way, you need anything?”_

“I— I… umm, no?”

_“Good. You realize it’s after four now, right?”_

“Uh huh. ’m sleepy.”

_“Are you going to go to bed?”_

He blinks, “Yeah. Yeah. I’ll do that.” His eyes slip closed and he feels himself begin to melt against the tile floor. It’s not the most comfortable thing in the world, but he flattens his newly burned hand against the cool stone to let it soothe the injury and rearranges his legs so his ankles aren’t scraping against the grout. His shirt’s not quite big enough to be a blanket, but he’ll settle for warm knees. “Can you… can you teach me how to make food pretty tomorrow,” he asks at length, already beginning to doze. “Before class, I mean…? I don’ wanna make a bad grade.”

There’s a smile that he can hear through the phone, _“Of course, Hiro. Get some sleep, okay? We’ll swing by your apartment in a few hours.”_

“’kay. You’re the best. ‘Sabi’s the best too,” he mumbles as he drifts off to dreamland.

Six hours later, GoGo is not happy to find him on his kitchen floor.

He’s not particularly happy to be waking up there either.

____

“Hi.”

He pauses, one misshapen cookie halfway to his mouth. He takes a moment to look to the left and then the right before furrowing his brows and looking down. He’s greeted by big blue eyes. He blinks, “Uh, hi?”

The little girl smiles up at him, her glossy black hair bouncing in her ponytail as she clasps her hands behind her back. “May I have one of your cookies please?”

“Err… one of these,” he asks, emphasizing the chocolate chip cookie in his hand. GoGo had let him use her bell-shaped cookie cutter to make it, but he thinks it looks more like a fat snowman that’s half melted. Even GoGo had agreed that the entire batch was hideous.

But the girl nods her head anyway and the pink bow holding her hair bobs along with her.

On the one hand, he supposes that it’s not an unusual request. For the final yesterday, all the students were required to create a dinner course and a dessert course from a prechosen list of ingredients. The dinner courses were graded and eaten yesterday, but for the last day of class, Honey Lemon had them set their desserts at their stations to be sampled by their classmates and he’s already had several people stop by and congratulate him on his delicious (if horribly lopsided) almond cream cake.

But on the other hand, he made a _cake_ for the final and last time he checked, he was the youngest person in his class. And also possibly the shortest.

“I’m sorry, but I made these at home. I don’t think I’m allowed to give you any of them,” he gives her a defeated sort of shrug and immediately regrets it when her shoulders slump and her lips pull into a pout.

“Oh. Okay.”

“But I have some cake here that you can have if you want,” Hiro blurts, gesturing uselessly at the sugary treat. She pushes herself up on her tiptoes and peeks over the side of the table, her glittery pink sneakers squeaking faintly against the tile. “Do you, uh… want a slice?”

Big blue eyes stare at it as if she’s inspecting it for imperfections before she lowers herself back to the ground. She gives a little nod, “Yes, please.”

“Umm, yeah. Okay. Give me just a sec, then,” he cuts her a small portion from an already precut slice and carefully lays it down on a paper plate before handing it to her. “Here,” he says unnecessarily.

“Thank you very much,” she replies— and then promptly sits on the floor.

Hiro blanches, startled as he stares down at her. He glances around the room, looking this way and that for her parents because surely _someone_ is here with this kid and nope, no one’s paying them any attention and isn’t that just fantastic and—

“This is really good!”

Chocolate brown eyes glance back downward and clear blue orbs look straight back at him. She smiles again, showing her teeth this time. There’s a couple missing on the bottom and isn’t that just adorable? He has no idea what he’s doing. He feels himself smile back, self-consciously rubbing at his arm, “Thanks.”

“You should teach my daddy how to cook,” she says seriously, taking another dainty bite. A slice of almond catches on her chin and she wipes it away with the palm of her hand.

“I’m sure your daddy doesn’t need my help,” Hiro frowns, squatting down in front of her with a napkin. “I’m really not a very good cook.”

“Nu-uh,” she shakes her head and points her plastic fork at him. He raises an eyebrow. It’s almost like looking at a younger version of GoGo, with the little girl’s round face and large eyes. Only, she doesn’t quite have the intimidation glare mastered yet. It’s more endearing than terrifying. “You are a very good cook. And daddy is not.”

She takes another large bite of the almond cake and Hiro takes a moment to wonder if there’s some rule about giving sugar to other people’s kids without permission before he shrugs, “I don’t know about that. Don’t you think it’s ugly?”

He says it like it’s a joke, but he’s still upset that his food doesn’t turn out the way he wants it to. He practiced before the final and even had Wasabi and GoGo try to help him figure it out, but everything he makes still turns out wrong. It’s tasty, _sure_ , but he wants it to look appetizing too.

“Well, yeah,” the little girl snorts around the plastic fork. He feels himself deflate, his shoulders drooping, but she pops the utensil out of her mouth and continues matter-of-factly, “but the pretty food is a _lie_. It always tastes bad!”

He blinks at her, a sinking realization tugging at his gut. She has inky black hair and her ears are slightly too big for her. Her daddy makes pretty food, but—

“Mieko! There you are!”

He just failed Honey Lemon’s cooking class for the third time in a row. 

Hiro gulps and pulls himself into a standing position just as Dashi comes up to his table, one of his hands running anxiously through his hair. His daughter smiles cheekily up at him and shoves another bite of cake into her mouth. Dashi just sighs down at her and turns his attention to Hiro, an apologetic grin stretched across his lips, “Sorry about this. I hope she wasn’t bothering you.”

“Oh, uh, no. She’s fine,” he tries to smile back, but he feels his mouth do some sort of awkward twitch so he lets it lie flat. His default mode for handling Dashi usually involves a lot of biting remarks or silences, so he’s a little out of his element. He feels somewhat bad that the man failed the class again (the only one out of the lot of them, unfortunately) and part of him, a _very small_ part, kind of regrets being so mean to him over the last six weeks.

It was _maybe_ a little unfair of him.

“Sti—”

“Daddy,” Mieko calls as she stands, delicately placing her empty paper plate on the table, “he should teach you how to cook.”

She points at Hiro and both men sputter at one another. Dashi runs a hand down his face and laughs, but Hiro just turns bright red, the familiar heat running up his neck and painting the tips of his ears.

Mieko stomps her foot on the ground and crosses her arms over her chest, pouting, “ _Daddy_! I’m serious! Stop laughing at me!”

“I’m sorry,” Dashi says indulgently. His daughter makes a little _hmph_ noise and scrunches her nose. To be fair, the man is still chuckling under his breath. “But I’m sure he has other things to do with his time than try to teach me how to cook. I’ll just have to take Aunt Honey’s class again next time.”

“But Auntie Honey’s been trying for so _loooonnnggg_ ,” she grumbles.

Hiro covers his mouth to suppress a laugh just as Dashi bends down to her level. He takes a moment to glance at his hands; he’s not wearing a wedding ring, “Mieko.”

And Dashi’s tone isn’t mean or threatening, but there’s a clear warning there for Mieko to behave. She continues to pout, but bends her head anyway. “I’m sorry,” she mumbles and then, surprisingly, she turns back to Hiro, “And I’m sorry for bothering you. Thank you very much for the cake. I liked it a lot.”

He blinks, “You’re welcome— and you weren’t, uh, bothering me. I’m glad you liked the cake.”

“Very, very much,” Mieko nods, leaning back against her father. Dashi places his hands on her shoulders and she looks up at him, “Can I have another piece?”

Coffee-colored irises look down at her before Dashi shrugs, “If he says it’s okay.”

Hiro has a feeling that Dashi is an indulgent type of parent.

But he shrugs and goes along with it, “Sure. If she wants another piece, she can have one.” And then the scene from moments before replays, with Mieko peering over the side of the table and him cutting her another piece of the confection before handing the plate off to her. This time, she takes it with a quick thank you and runs off to hang off of Honey Lemon’s arm.

Dashi stays behind.

His fingers uncomfortably drum, drum, drum against the tabletop and he shuffles his feet, wishing that he’d remembered to grab his nametag before leaving his apartment this afternoon. He’s grown accustomed to spinning it around his fingers to stave off his anxious energy. Chocolate brown eyes glance up at Dashi before fleeting away.

They stand in silence for what’s possibly the most awkward minute of Hiro’s short life. And that’s saying something; he has a lot of awkward minutes to choose from.

Eventually, Dashi heaves a sigh and holds out his hand. “I’m Tadashi,” he says.

Hiro stares at his hand and, unfortunately, opens his mouth, “Wait, so this whole time, your _actual_ name was basically ‘ _Tada_ - _Soup_ ’?”

“Umm,” Tadashi’s hand falters in front of him and he frowns, “yes?”

Hiro realizes belated that he was making jazz hands and has to stop himself, sheepishly knotting them together as if that will make up for what they were doing before. His face reddens, “Okay. Uh, yeah. Okay, then. I’m Hiro.”

Their hands clasp together and he wonders if Tadashi can feel how sweaty his palm is before he tugs it back to himself, discreetly tucking it into his pocket.

Then he does something even dumber and opens his mouth again, “I could, uh, try to teach you— if you wanted me to, I mean.” Coffee-colored irises stare at him and inky black eyebrows raise almost as if in disbelief. And Hiro’s not entirely sure as to where _that_ came from, but he rolls with it, trying to explain, “I’m not, like, the best at this or— or anything, but everything always tastes okay and— uh, yeah. I don’t know.”

He doesn’t. He assumes it’s the lack of sleep talking.

He hopes it is anyway.

Tadashi blinks at him, wide eyed, “Well, yeah— that’s… That’d be great. I mean, it’s no secret that I’m not, uh, _good_ at this, but I can’t pay you. I’m taking Honey’s class for free because we’re friends, but…”

“You wouldn’t have to,” Hiro shrugs, biting his bottom lip. “I didn’t pay for this class either. My friend enrolled me.”

“Okay,” Tadashi says plainly— and then he smiles and shrugs, “Okay. Meet up next weekend then?”

“Absolutely.”

____

Twenty minutes later when he’s panicking in the backseat of Wasabi’s car and GoGo’s laughing her ass off, he wishes he knew how to keep his damn mouth shut.  

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

So, uh... surprise? D̶a̶d̶d̶y̶ ̶D̶a̶s̶h̶i̶ ̶f̶o̶r̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶w̶i̶n̶!̶

And on an unrelated (still somewhat related note) my humor has managed to get both lamer and overrun by the plot. Fancy that.

...I'll be in my corner.

Comments are welcomed and responded to! I'd love to hear your thoughts! =)


	3. Beef Flavored Bafflement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Right. I’ll tell Wasabi about it. And who the upgrades are for,” she grins, shaking her head a bit to get her violet fringe out of her eyes. 
> 
> There’s something predatory in her smile. Hiro stares at her for a moment, chocolate brown eyes narrowing as she purposefully looks back at him. His brows furrow. “Am I missing something…?”
> 
> “Nope. You’re fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why, hi. Yes, hello, there. It has been a long time. 
> 
> I̶ ̶a̶m̶ ̶s̶o̶r̶r̶y̶ ̶I̶ ̶s̶u̶c̶k̶.̶

“Are you sure this is the right place, little man?” 

Hiro tucks his leg underneath himself on the seat and uses it as leverage to get a better view outside the car window. It’s dark out already— a testament to the rain clouds that absolutely refused to leave after the afternoon showers— but the apartment complex in front of him is lit up well enough, with overhead lights brightening the walkways and sliding glass doors illuminating the balconies on the upper floors. It’s not a nice place by any means, with bits of the siding crumbling away here and there, the entire building itself tucked away on a back road in a not bad but not-quite-good part of town, but it seems inviting enough.

He frowns anyway, his brows furrowing in barely concealed confusion. He takes a moment to glance at the address written on the welcoming sign and compares it to the one he’d hastily written on his palm in an effort to prevent himself from forgetting it.

They’re the same. This just isn’t what he’d been expecting.

“Looks like it.”

Wasabi sucks in a breath and tightens his grip on the steering wheel, his shoulders squaring against the seatbelt. “Okay,” he says, his voice a slightly higher pitch than strictly necessary. “Okay. This is— why don’t you, uh, call him— Tadashi— and reschedule your cooking lesson for tomorrow at your place instead?”

It’s a tempting offer— an excuse to have the meeting on his turf where he’ll be more comfortable and in control— and with midterms coming up, he even has a conceivable out, but he shakes his head anyway and begins unbuckling his seatbelt. He promised Tadashi that he would help teach him how to cook—however improbable with his own limited knowledge—and he’s going to do that.

Probably.

He’d panicked about it a bit in the beginning, but he’s determined and ready and lessening his own guilt for treating the man like crap for the better part of six weeks is only _part_ of the reason he hasn’t called the whole thing off yet.

Hiro’s not so sure what the other reason _is_ , but… It’s not important. He’ll figure it out. Eventually.

“It’ll be fine. I’m only going to be here for a few hours and I’ll give you a call if I need you to come back any sooner than we planned,” he shrugs and smiles with a sort of bravery he doesn’t really feel and hoists the brown paper bag full of ingredients into his lap so he can slide out of the van, his trainers squeaking against the side of the door as he kicks it open.

Calloused fingers catch his wrist and he stops, chocolate orbs locking with dark brown. Wasabi sighs, “Look, I know GoGo’s been giving you a hard time about this and it’s not good for you to back out of promises, but _I_ want you to be safe, okay? And we don’t really know this guy very well, so if you don’t want to go through with this, you don’t have to. Just say you don’t want to stay here and I’ll tell GoGo that I wouldn’t _let_ you and that’ll be the end of it.”

His voice is rumbling and earnest and Hiro is instantly transported back to the time when he’d fallen down a flight of stairs due to faulty wiring on his hoverboard and Wasabi had carried him all the way to the medical ward. He’d given himself a concussion and broken his ankle, but the older man hadn’t once berated him for it. GoGo had— because it’s what she _does_ — but it’d been nice to have Wasabi calm him down and sit with him while they’d bandaged him up. He’d never had that before. And at the time, he’d basked in the obvious affection and palpable concern.

He still does.

But he isn’t sixteen anymore and he promised.

So, he frees his wrist and slides out of the car, shrugging as he leans against the doorframe, the brown paper bag balanced precariously on his hip. He’s too skinny for it to sit properly. “It’ll be fine,” he says again, more convincingly this time. “Tadashi’s not dangerous.” And he’s not. Most likely. Hiro hasn’t decided yet if Tadashi’s nice-guy smile actually means he’s a nice guy or not, but… there’s really no need for Wasabi to know that. At least not until Hiro figures it out for himself.

“If you’re sure…”

“Absolutely. I’m an ex-bot-fighter. The man wears cardigans— what’s there to worry about?”

“Bruised ribs,” Wasabi deadpans, knuckles tightening against the steering wheel.

And Hiro has the decency to look at least a little sheepish at that. Reminding Wasabi of his one and only foray into the San Fransokyo underground was likely not the best idea he’s ever had, but he rolls with it. It’s what he’s best at. “Again, _cardigans_. I’ll be fine.”

Wasabi sucks in another breath before slowly letting it out, one hand pushing his green headband farther back against his forehead. “Okay. Fine— you win. I’ll be back to pick you up at eight, okay? And you’ll call me if you need me before then, right?”

“Yes, _mother_ ,” he drawls, rolling his eyes ever so slightly, his lips twitching upwards as he pushes away from the car and moves to close the door. “Now, go already. I’m going to end up being late.”

“Fine. Just be careful.”

Hiro, being more than a little used to this routine, chooses to shut the door without dignifying that with a response. He hears something that sounds suspiciously like _‘Don’t forget to brush your teeth after eating’_ before the car begins to back out of the complex, but he ignores that too and after hoisting the grocery bag a little higher on his hip, begins to make his way closer toward the apartment building.

He takes a moment to check the fading ink across his palm before shuffling over to the nearest stairway. Apartment 26— second floor, sixth unit. Right. He scrunches his nose at the metal staircase, gingerly stepping up. The complex looks even worse up close— more rundown and sad, with a layer of rust peeling off the stairs and a rather unfortunate swaying occurring every time he moves— and by the time he makes it to the second floor landing, he’s more than a little thankful for his slight frame.

No. This isn’t what he’d expected at all.

Guilt settles in his chest and he takes a deep breath to clear it away, shaking his head and moving down the walkway, silently counting the door as he goes. He stops at the sixth, his lower lip sucked in between his teeth. The sixth unit looks to be in better shape than the rest, with a colorful welcome mat at the foot of the door and a layer of fresh red paint accenting the crisp white trim at the entrance, but Hiro stares at it apprehensively anyway, steeling himself (for something— he’s not entirely sure what).

His fingers nervously drum, drum against the bag in his hands as he takes a step forward. His pace quickens; his heart beats much too loudly in his chest. This was a bad idea. Likely, probably the _worst_ idea he’s ever had. Teaching a man— who may or may not be a bully, but certainly reminds him of his fair share— how to cook when he himself barely even knows. Why exactly did he agree to this? Why did he _offer_ to do this? He should have just left with Wasabi, deleted the man’s information from his contacts list, and forgotten all about his lapse in sanity.

So _what_ if he hasn’t figured the man out yet? So _what_ if he’s felt guilty for over a week now? It’ll all disappear in time— probably— and what happens if he messes up? It’s not like he’s an expert on cooking; this isn’t something he does for a living. He’s barely even been doing it for the last two months! And what if Tadashi gets angry at him for wasting his time? He didn’t get mad at Honey Lemon, but he _liked_ her and Hiro’s not exactly _likeable_. He’s short and skinny and easily distracted and—

Knocking.

He stares at his knuckles in horror, realizing belatedly that he’s shifted the ingredients bag into one hand and lifted his other one to rap against the door.

_“Coming! Just a minute!”_  

Tadashi’s voice reverberates through the door and Hiro feels himself stiffening, his shoulders squaring and his fingers digging into the paper bag, the crinkling far too loud to his own ears. He didn’t think this through. He’s had a whole week to plan for this— to panic and pick up ingredients and iron out the details with Tadashi via text— but somehow, he never once thought about this moment. This one ridiculous moment when they were supposed to see each other again.

They’re not friends. And Hiro might be playing at being a teacher, but he _isn’t_ one. They don’t know each other at all and he’s not sure how he’s supposed to act. Bitter and biting only made him feel sick to his stomach and Tadashi _might_ not have deserved that anyway and—

“Oh, hi,” Tadashi smiles as the door swings open, his coffee-colored irises wide. “You’re a little early. Here, come on— _ouff_!”

Hiro takes a startled step back as a large white blur streaks passed, bowling Tadashi over in its hasty run for the stairs. He stares at it.

“ _Baymax!_ Crap— crap, just, uh, I’m really sorry—,” Tadashi stammers, quickly righting himself and giving Hiro a little push toward the apartment’s entrance. “Just make yourself at home— I have to grab him. So, just, uh, I’ll be right back!” 

By the time he’s finished talking, he’s running down the same precarious staircase that Hiro barely managed to make it up just a few moments before. Bewildered brown eyes blink and his mouth shuts with an audible click.

He thinks he might have been planning on saying hello.

Oh well.

Carefully, as if someone’s going to jump out at him at any moment, Hiro steps into the apartment. The first thing that strikes him is how terribly small it is— smaller than his own, it seems— with the kitchen and living area all jammed into one space. There’s a single loveseat across from a television on one side of the entryway and a tiny table crammed opposite a set of kitchen cupboards on the other. And it’s very _male_ , with nothing but beiges and neutrals, the bare minimum of everything. With the exception of what obviously belongs to Mieko— a collection of glittery-looking horses stacked up in one corner, a pink _Hello Kitty_ backpack hanging on the wall, a pair of tiny rainbow colored sneakers— it looks like a bachelor pad. A particularly sad one.

“Do you need any help?”

Hiro jumps and shakes his head as if to clear it, twisting around. Mieko smiles at him from underneath the arch that clearly leads back towards the bedrooms. Big blue eyes blink at him and he smiles sheepishly, awkwardly clearly his throat, “No, uh— your dad just… had to chase something?”

It sounds ridiculous as soon as it leaves his mouth, but Mieko smiles a little wider, her missing front teeth evident. “It’s just Baymax,” she says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. To her, maybe it is. “He likes the rain, but Dad doesn’t like having to dry out the carpet. Says he’s like a con— a con— hmph.”

“Convict,” Hiro supplies helpfully, a little more at ease as he moves to set the ingredients in the kitchen.

“Convict,” Mieko repeats, scrunching her nose around the word like it’s personally offended her. GoGo would love her; he’s absolutely sure. “Yes, that. Are you really going to teach Daddy how to cook?”

He takes a moment to think on that, twisting a can of chicken broth in between his hands as he begins to unpack. He doesn’t want to lie to her, because he really doesn’t know if he can actually teach the man or not, but… there’s something wonderfully endearing about her, with her crystal blue eyes and her slightly overlarge ears. “I’m going to try,” he says eventually.

Her eyes narrow a bit then, her lips thinning like she’s studying him before she brightens. “Good,” she hums, rocking back on her heels. “Auntie Honey _promised_ she would, but… It’s bad to make promises you can’t keep, you know.”

She sighs a little wistfully then— a flare for the dramatic— and it takes everything Hiro can do to keep from laughing, a couple of his fingers automatically going up to his mouth so he can hide his smile. “Well, I’m not promising. Just trying.”

“Then maybe you’ll have better luck,” she says with an air of finality, nodding to herself before coming farther into the room to play with the glittery horses in the corner.

Hiro spends the next several minutes trying to set everything up, smiling to himself as he pulls the ingredients out one by one. Mieko doesn’t try to speak to him again, but every once in a while, he looks up from the rice or the peppers to watch her stretched out on the floor, swinging her feet back and forth in the air. She looks content enough in this crammed little room with the beiges and the neutrals.

He's envious. Thinking about it makes his heart ache in his chest for something he never really had.

“—worst dog in the world. You’d better be glad I love you so much, you overgrown monster.”

Hiro glances up just as Tadashi steps back through the door, grumbling under his breath in what is clearly a well-recited rant. The dog (though Hiro thinks that miniature horse might be a more appropriate description) looks entirely too satisfied with himself, his tail wagging sporadically behind him even as Tadashi tugs on his bright red collar.

Mieko giggles from her spot on the floor and the dog barks in response, trotting the rest of the way into the living room in what can only be describes as a prance. He stretches out across the little girl’s back and Mieko laughs harder, hiding her face in the crook of her arm.

Tadashi opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but closes it with a sigh, running his hand over his face in resignation. Hiro blinks at him then and coffee-colored irises blink back, their owner turning a deep shade of red, like he’d completely forgotten that Hiro had even shown up yet.

“Sorry about that,” he winces. “Again.”

Hiro just shrugs in response, a layer of unease settling over him as Tadashi comes to stand in the kitchen area. He looks nice enough, maybe a little tired, but he’s smiling and relaxed, so Hiro tries to smile back, taking a deep breath despite the butterflies swirling in his stomach, “It’s cool. So, umm, I thought we could try having you cook today with me watching— just so I can see what you’re doing wrong and point it out. It’s not entirely different from what, uh, Honey Lemon does in her class, but it’ll be a bit more… personalized, I guess?”

He feels awkward saying it, his voice starting out at a normal volume and sinking down into what could almost be considered a whisper, his neck burning, but Tadashi grabs the recipe off the laminate countertop where Hiro laid it several minutes earlier and starts skimming through it, his fingers tap, tap, tapping against the surface. “Sure. Sounds good to me.”

“Okay, uh, good. That’s good,” Hiro stammers, nervously twisting his fingers around his jacket sleeves. So far so good. He can do this. Probably. “Ready to get started then?”

Twenty minutes later, Tadashi’s most of the way through the prep, a pan of carefully chopped onions and sweet peppers are sautéing away on the stovetop, and Hiro couldn’t be happier, leaning against the countertop with his fingers hidden in his sleeves. The Roman chicken recipe that he’d located and altered from the deep recesses of the Internet isn’t complicated, but it’s tasty and so far, his one and only foray into teaching has been going well.

And at this point, there’s really not much for him to do besides make sure that Tadashi doesn’t add anything nefarious to the ingredients— which he doesn’t think will be happening anytime soon— so he lets himself wonder, his chocolate-colored eyes twisting this way and that, as if he’s trying to memorize the small space. There really isn’t much to see that he hasn’t already noticed, except for maybe Tadashi himself, but he finds himself drawn to the _Hello Kitty_ backpack again and again.

His mouth twists. Hiro doesn’t know how old Mieko is, but she’s obviously already in elementary school and Tadashi— he doesn’t seem very old at all. Only a handful of years older than Hiro himself, really. He gazes at the neutrals and the beiges again, taking in the complete lack of knick-knacks and the horribly mismatched pots and pans.

And then he, rather unfortunately, opens his mouth.

“So, you’re a single parent, then,” he asks, twisting around to get a better look at Tadashi. He means to be conversational, to fill the dead space between them with something other than silence, but Tadashi’s grip tightens around the knife in his hand, his back rigid.

Carefully, the older man straightens, one lone mushroom left on his cutting board as weary brown eyes shift focus, glancing upwards. His lips tighten. “Yes.”

It’s not a kind word.

Hiro blinks, confused by the obvious hostility. His fingers knot in his sleeves; the familiar spike of adrenaline races through his veins. “Oh,” he mumbles somewhat dumbly, unsure of what to say. “You don’t seem very old though.”

It happens quickly after that.

Tadashi twists around completely, slamming the knife against the counter with a resounding— _terrifying—_ clank, his fingers shaking, his knuckles white. Hiro makes a horrified squeak in surprise as Tadashi takes a step closer, his lips pressed into a thin, furious line. “So _what_! She is _my_ daughter! I am _perfectly_ capable of taking care of _my_ daughter on _my own_! I’m fine! **_We’re_** fine! Completely and totally _fine_ without a wife or— or a girlfriend! And I don’t need some— some— _whoever you are_ — telling me how to raise _my kid_!”

Thin shoulders bump against the refrigerator as Hiro takes a hasty step back, his fingers trapped unconsciously around his sleeves, his head bent in a violent flinch. There’s a recognizable sort of terror thrumming against his chest, his heart thump, thump, thumping as quickly as it can, his breath coming in and out in shallow pants. He’s been here before, backed against the wall with someone just like this one standing over him— all broad shouldered and tall with a sturdy jaw and everything they ever wanted.

Except he hasn’t really because Baymax growls from underneath the table, low and angry— a warning— and Tadashi instantly backs off like he didn’t realize what he was doing in the first place, running his hands through his hair. His lips twist into a grimace.

“Sorry,” he says at length, taking a deep, steadying sort of breath. He moves as far away as he possibly can while still staying in the kitchen. Hiro stays frozen, chocolate brown eyes wide, forced up on his tiptoes, crushed into the tiny space where the countertop and the refrigerator meet.

“Sorry. God, I’m _sorry_ ,” Tadashi repeats— and it’s a pathetic and small sort of apology, the kind that Hiro’s never quite heard directed at himself before. The sincere kind, the genuine kind— he’s not sure what to make of it, his limbs shaking ever-so-slightly with residual terror. But Tadashi keeps going anyway, his fists clenching and unclenching by his sides. “It’s a— a sore subject,” he explains. “It’s a _really_ sore subject that’s been coming up all week but that doesn’t— I shouldn’t have— Just, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

He gives Hiro a little half-hearted smile and turns away, back to the cutting board with the lone mushroom, his hands braced on the counter. He’s still breathing in and out measuredly, but he’s not mad anymore, the tenseness more from shame than anger.

And Hiro— weirdly, impossibly— finds himself forgiving him instantly, cautiously lowering himself into a more comfortable position, quietly pushing the dread out of his lungs. Because this isn’t what’s _supposed_ to happen. This isn’t how it’s _supposed_ to go.

Guys like Tadashi with their nice-guy smiles and their perfect looks— They’re not supposed to apologize to people like him.

And he’s not supposed to _understand_ them.

They’re supposed to be from different worlds. They’re supposed to have different problems. But Hiro understands this one— being thought of as less than capable because of his age, because he didn’t have anyone in his corner. He’s dealt with it all his life— from being moved up, up, up in school to applying for his first grant to dealing with the leasing office during his apartment search— and he _gets_ it.

He swallows, nibbling at his lower lip. Big brown eyes glance at the inconspicuous backpack once again and he’s suddenly glad that Tadashi sent Mieko back to her room ages ago. It’s best that she didn’t see anything. It would have scared her and it’s so obvious that Tadashi more than loves her and—

Sometimes, Hiro thinks he’s an idiot, all caught up in his own little world. He’s smart enough— _yeah_ — but he doesn’t understand how he’s supposed to talk to people. GoGo and Wasabi understand him because they’ve had years to figure him out, but someone like Tadashi, someone he doesn’t really know and someone who doesn’t really know him— They wouldn’t know what he was trying to say. That he was just trying to understand in his own way.

A sigh. Tadashi glances up at him, coffee-colored irises strained and sad. He looks even more tired now.

“Have you lived here for very long? In San Fransokyo, I mean,” Hiro asks, not quite casually, his fingers falling into his mouth so he can pull at his nails. The older man gives a hesitant sort of nod. “So, you’ve probably heard about _The Lucky Cat_ , then? The orphanage off near the interstate exit?

“Yeah,” Tadashi returns at length, his eyebrows furrowed. “I’ve heard of it.”

“Good,” Hiro breathes, swallowing thickly. “Good, uh— yeah. I grew up there, so I’m not— I didn’t mean anything by what I said before.” The words barely make it passed his throat and he turns to the side so he can avoid the look on Tadashi’s face that accompanies his sharp inhale. “Look, it’s not a big deal or anything. I just wanted you to know that I didn’t mean anything, umm… _bad_. I think it’s great that you kept your daughter, you know? I never even met my parents.”

There’s a tense pause, the silence hanging heavily between them before Tadashi puffs out a sigh, shaking his head in his hands. “Man, I’m so _sorry_. It’s just… It’s hard sometimes— dealing with everything.” He gives a little shrug then, trying for another half-hearted smile. “Can we just pretend that I’m _not_ a giant knucklehead and keep going like the last fifteen minutes never happened?”

Hiro shrugs, his lips twisting into what could have been a grin. “The peppers are burning.”

“Oh, are you serious—”

____

Hiro tilts his head to the side, thick black hair tickling his cheek as his tongue pushes passed his lips. His fingers straighten the carrots on the board, pressing them into tight, uniform lines. Carefully, he brings the knife down, watching raptly as the carrots are formed into tiny chunks— all exactly the same size, all exactly the same height.

GoGo raises an inky black eyebrow at him when he dumps the cutting board into the nearby mixing bowl with a flourish, but otherwise seems pleased, checking to make sure that all the vegetables are cut evenly. “Your technique is improving.”

He knows, but he positively preens under the praise anyway. He’d watched Tadashi’s chopping skills during their first cooking lesson together and he decided that he would give it a try with his own meals. So far, it hasn’t done much for the meats, but the vegetables— oh, the _vegetables_. They’re beautiful— or at least, passably pretty.

He’ll take what he can get.

“So, Panda Eyes,” she starts after popping a raw carrot chunk into her mouth, her bubble gum pushed to the side, “what’s all this then?” She gestures toward the kitchen at large and he takes a moment to glance around. There are plates everywhere, filled with a variety of things— from vegetables to meats to lined up canned goods. It’s an absolute mess, but he swells with pride anyway.

“Practice,” he says.

GoGo scrutinizes him for a moment, almond-shaped eyes narrowing. Her arms cross in front of her chest and she leans forward, her elbows against the table. “Practice,” she questions, “for your cooking lessons?”

“Yup,” he pops the ‘p,’ lining up a couple of celery sticks and giving them the same treatment as the carrots. They crunch when he presses down and he’s more than satisfied with the sound, lifting himself up and down on his heels. Hiro wonders why he didn’t try this sooner.

“So you’re going back then?”

He blinks, stopping to glance at her. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “I mean, why wouldn’t I?”

“Dunno,” she shrugs, and she looks inordinately pleased with him in a way that he’s not really used to. She hasn’t even threatened to hit him yet. “Wasabi said he lived in a bad part of town.”

Her voice is casual, but Hiro can tell that she’s digging towards something, so he sets the knife on the cutting board and leans over the counter. “Wasabi thinks everyone that’s not within walking distance to the police station lives in the bad part of town. Besides, it’s more that he’s in the bad part of the good part of town— or the good part of the bad part. One of those.”

GoGo’s lips quirk up a bit at that. “And you were complaining about promising to go for a week.”

“I was not.”

There’s a pause between them where GoGo’s eyebrows raise and one of her purple-tipped sneakers tap, tap, taps against the floor.

“I was _not_ ,” he stresses. “I only complained for four days. That is _not_ a week.”

“Nearly a week then,” she amends. Hiro knows from experience that that’s about as close as GoGo gets to an apology, but he scowls at her anyway. She’s snarkier when Wasabi’s not around. “ _Anyway_ ,” she continues, “I’m just surprised. You seemed like you were dreading it.”

He opens his mouth to defend himself, but then clicks it closed with a shrug. He hadn’t exactly been _excited_ about going, but… “It was better than I expected.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” he intones, thinking back on the conversation he’d had with Wasabi when the older man had picked him up Saturday night. “I mean, it was awkward at first. Like, super, weirdly awkward, but after that was out of the way, it went really well. Tadashi’s actually a pretty cool guy.”

He smiles as he says it and for some reason, his cheeks burn. GoGo smirks, straightening in her chair, “So, you _like_ him?”

There’s a weird infliction in her voice around the word like that he doesn’t quite understand, but he ignores it with a little frown. Hiro hardly ever understands what she’s getting at when she’s being cryptic, so he lets it go as a lost cause. “Sure, so far. Did you know he works as a mechanic?”

“How would I know that?”

“Oh, yeah, right— Anyway, he works at the big garage off of Lombard Street,” he explains. “Do you think he could use the mini mechanic I made second year? It’s more of a car thing, so I don’t have much of a need for it. And, like— I don’t know. It’d probably be helpful, considering his job.”

“You want to help him with his job,” GoGo says slowly, almond-shaped eyes staring at him strangely.

He frowns, “Well, sure. I built it to help mechanics. It’s not getting a lot of use chunked in the storage bin at the lab. I’d have to fix it up though— maybe add a self-charging feature? That could work. And maybe Wasabi would be willing to help me with some of the precision instruments? That’s more his thing than mine.”

“Right. I’ll tell Wasabi about it. _And_ who the upgrades are for,” she grins, shaking her head a bit to get her violet fringe out of her eyes.

There’s something predatory in her smile. Hiro stares at her for a moment, chocolate brown eyes narrowing as she purposefully looks back at him. His brows furrow. “Am I missing something…?”

“Nope. You’re fine.”

He blinks at her for a moment before shrugging. It’s probably unimportant anyway. “Right. So, yeah— I think I’ll do that then. Fix the mini mechanic up this week and bring it by when we do lessons this weekend. And—,” Hiro stops himself, glancing at his jacket with a frown. “Do you think I should wear a t-shirt instead of the hoodie?”

GoGo chokes.

“I mean, it’d be better for cooking, you know? I won’t get so much stuff on my sleeves. That’d be easier, right?” It’d be a little weird for him to leave it behind, but he’s tired of having to wash it so often. A t-shirt would be easier. More functional.

“You’re really serious about this guy aren’t you?”

“Well, yeah,” he responds immediately, shrugging. “I want the cooking lessons to go well and it’ll be easier to cook if I’m not constantly rolling up my sleeves.”

It seems simple enough to him, but GoGo keeps looking at him strangely. “Right. You want to wear a t-shirt because it’s more _practical_?”

“Uh… yes?”

“Okay,” she snorts, obviously amused by _something_ (he’s not sure he wants to know what it is at this point). She leans a little closer to him then, glancing at his legs. “Maybe you should try jeans too. You wouldn’t have to worry about dropping anything on your shins then.”

She says it like it’s a joke, but he glances down anyway, lips twisted into a slight frown. His legs are pale and thin beneath his shorts. He smiles at her, “I think I’ll do that. T-shirt and jeans.”

“You’ll look nice,” she snickers. “ _Very_ practical.”

Hiro doesn’t understand why that’s so funny.

____

“What are you doing?”

Tadashi blinks at him, his coffee-colored irises glancing over his shoulder to where Hiro’s massaging Baymax with his feet. “Making gravy,” he tries.

Hiro raises one skeptical eyebrow at the measuring cup in the other man’s hand. “With a cup and a half of salt?”

“Umm… yes?”

“No, Tadashi. No.”

____

GoGo props her feet on his desk. “So, how was dinner?”

His nose scrunches. “Salty.”

“Ah. And the t-shirt and jeans?”

“Practical.”

“Right. _Practical_.”

____

Three weeks later, Hiro finds himself comfortably leaning against Tadashi’s kitchen table, his head shaking back and forth with his hand buried beneath his fringe. Coffee-brown eyes have the decency to look at least a little sheepish.

“I could try again…?”

Hiro barks out a laugh. “Nope, nope— we’re done for the night. No more! I can’t take it. The stove can’t take it. The _dog_ can’t take it!” He gestures to the kitchen at large, at the overturned spice rack and the crammed counters. Thinking back on it, Hiro is almost amused that he once thought this man knew how to cook. “What is wrong with you tonight?”

“I don’t know,” Tadashi groans, hiding his face in his hands. Hiro tries to keep himself from smiling at the gesture; he’s grown strangely fond of it, of Tadashi’s hands in general. There’s a grease stain underneath the fingernail on Tadashi’s left index finger. It wouldn’t come off with any amount of scrubbing, so Hiro just let it go as a lost cause.

Like he should have done with dinner, apparently.

Tadashi’s first attempt at a pork and vegetable stir fry over rice started out well enough, but went completely haywire when Tadashi added a cup of _raw_ rice to the wok while Hiro was distracted by Baymax (It wasn’t entirely his fault; the dog is very persuasive). The second attempt ended when Tadashi bumped his head against the spice rack over the stove and dumped an entire container of oregano seasoning on the vegetables. And the third attempt— oh the _third_ attempt came to its gruesome end when Tadashi tried to plate it and ended up slipping on a puddle of spilt soy sauce. The whole batch was turned over in the fall. Mostly on Hiro’s head.

And yet, they’d tried for a fourth attempt because Hiro had clearly lost his mind. Hair and clothes newly splattered, he’d set Tadashi to try again.

It hadn’t worked. Obviously.

“How did that even happen,” he asks helplessly, his lips turning downward into a frown as he points at the offending dinner item. Shaking his head again, Hiro carefully pushes himself off the dinner table and steps towards it, poking at the charred mess burnt into the bottom of the sauté pan with a nearby fork. It was edible. Once. “This is _awful_.” 

His tone is a lot kinder than it used to be, even amused, but Tadashi grimaces anyway. “It’s not _that_ bad,” he reasons. “The second batch was worse.”

“Only after the oregano. Baymax wouldn’t even eat it.”

“Well, Baymax is picky. Clearly he doesn’t appreciate all the time I spent slaving over a hot stove to make him his dinner. Blood, sweat, and tears went into those green beans, Hiro. I could have _died_.” He narrows his eyes at the dog for good measure, an exaggerated frown creasing his features.

Hiro snorts and the Great Pyrenees in question looks up at them from his spot on the floor. His tail thump, thump, thumps against the table, happy as can be. “Don’t blame the dog.”

“I’ll blame the dog if I want to,” Tadashi snips, sticking his tongue out. It’s a childish sort of gesture; Hiro responds in kind, his lips quirking upwards at the edges. Over the last several weeks, he’s found that Tadashi is actually rather enjoyable to be around. He might have the same strong shoulders and sturdy jawline that the bullies from his school days flaunted, but Hiro’s come to find that Tadashi isn’t like they were in personality at all. And spending time with him, while not quite the same as being around GoGo and Wasabi, is comfortable. He likes it.

Though, admittedly, he likes it a lot more when there’s not a layer of sesame oil weighing down his hair.

It’s something to work on for next time.

“So,” Tadashi starts, running his hand through his hair in something like resignation, frowning at the inedible slop on the stove, “I could still give it another try. It might work out this time.” His lips twitch into what’s almost a smile as he grabs the pan off the stove and moves to scrape the ruined dinner remains into the trashcan to join their predecessors.

“ _Yeeaahhh_ — no. I would rather survive the night, if it’s all the same to you, Mr. Soup.”

“Why, I never,” Tadashi huffs, feigning offence with his hand over his chest. Chocolate brown eyes roll. At least, Mieko’s flair for the dramatic is beginning to make sense.

“Besides,” Hiro continues matter-of-factly, “you used up the last of the green beans and water chestnuts last time— and there’s not enough of everything else to make another full batch, even with Mieko being gone for the night.”

Tadashi blinks at him, his coffee-colored irises wide as they swivel between Hiro’s small frame and the ruined countertop. There’s a collection of leftover scraps from the last four batches, but there’s clearly not enough left for a full meal. “Oh. Well, that complicates things.”

“A bit,” Hiro shrugs. His lips quirk to the side; his fingers tip-tap against his own cheek. There really isn’t much food left, but… “I could try to make something?”

He smiles up at Tadashi, shrugging again as he leans against the nearby counter because he’s awkward like that and he’s not sure what else to do. Tadashi blinks at him for a moment before his mouth opens and then clicks closed, a broad smile stretching across his face. “You know,” he says, “I think we should go out.”

“ _Really_ ,” Hiro squawks. One thick black eyebrow raises and Hiro feels himself turning pink, the familiar heat running up his neck and painting his ears a rather violent shade of red. They’ve never gone out before. All their interactions have always taken place in Tadashi’s apartment, crammed inside his little kitchen or sitting at his dining table. He’s not sure what to say. His palms are sweaty.

“Yeah, really,” Tadashi grins. “You’re always the one bringing the food and it’s not like I’m paying you for the lessons. Let me take you out tonight. My treat.”

Chocolate brown eyes glance at him, at his charmingly oversized ears and his winning smile, and his heart does a weird sort of flutter in his chest. Frowning, Hiro presses his hand against it, rubbing his hand over the cotton material of his stained shirt. It’s strange.

He’s never felt that before.

“You alright?”

Hiro shakes his head as if to clear it, forcing a smile. “Yeah— uh, yeah. You were saying?”

“Come on, dinner and— and a movie if you’re up for it. It’ll be great.” There’s a hopeful sort of look in his eyes as he says it and Hiro feels himself brightening in response.

“ _Fine—_ just no stir fry! I can’t take it!”

Tadashi laughs.

And Hiro resolves to worry about the heart fluttering problem later. It’s probably nothing important.

____

“You look happy.”

He starts in his chair, his feet falling to the floor with a clatter. He blinks. “Oh, hey, GoGo. I didn’t see you there.”

“Clearly.” Her pink bubble gum pops between them. He smiles; she raises an eyebrow beneath her violet fringe. “How were lessons?”

“Awful. Murphy’s Law and all that.”

“And you’re happy about that because…?”

Hiro shrugs, sitting up a little straighter. “We ended up going out instead. Dinner and a movie. It was pretty great.”

A crash echoes in the corner of the lab. “GoGo, you said we didn’t have to worry about this!”

“Like I said, I _may_ have made a mistake,” GoGo yells back, shrugging.

Wasabi sputters. Hiro frowns. “Seriously, am I missing something here?”

____

“This is actually—”

“Yes, yes—”

“—edible.”

“ _Yes_!” Tadashi pumps his fist into the air, completely knocking his chair to the ground in his hurry to stand up. His smile is almost blinding as he dances around the room, his bare feet running along the carpet, his hands swinging out in front of him.

Meiko laughs at him from across the table and Baymax runs up to jump around his legs, weaving in and out with practiced ease.

And Hiro just hides his frown behind another bite, that ridiculous flutter back in his chest. It’s certainly not the best stuffed pepper he’s ever tasted, but it’s more than pleasant and Tadashi hadn’t once needed his help to make it. It should be a good sign— a milestone that shows that Tadashi had actually managed to learn something from him— but it makes his chest ache.

He wonders why.

____

“Why am I completely unsurprised by this?”

“Because it’s me,” Hiro shrugs, munching ruefully on the granola bar that the school nurse gave him after she hooked him up to the IV. It’s bland; he thinks he could have made a better one.

GoGo looks less than impressed with his reasoning, tapping the toe of her sneaker against the scuffed tiles of the medical ward. “So let me get this straight,” she snipes, her lips turned downward into a disappointed frown. “One— I paid for you to take a cooking class that you ended up excelling at. Clearly you know _how to_ cook. Two— you volunteered to teach someone else how to cook. Clearly you are _physically capable_ of cooking. And three— ten weeks later, you forget to eat for _three days_ and end up _unconscious_ in the lab! Did I miss anything, Hamada?”

He opens his mouth but then snaps it closed again. He doesn’t have much to say for himself, not with an IV hooked to his arm at his elbow and a bruise the size of Kentucky making itself known on his side. “Nope. That pretty much sums it up.”

“ _You—_ ,” she cuts herself off, clenching her fists. “Do you have any idea how close you came to falling through Wasabi’s lasers? Any idea, Hamada? You could have died!”

“Wasabi never leaves them on when he’s not there.”

“That is not the point!”

She takes a step forward like she’s going to hit him and he flinches back against the pillows, drawing up his knees. There’s a school nurse on just the other side of the privacy screen, but he’d rather not take his chances. GoGo can do a lot of damage when she wants to. And he’s pretty sure that it’s just her way of showing she cares, but sometimes, he thinks she cares a little too much. “I know! I know— and I’m _sorry_. It won’t happen again.”

“Liar,” she huffs, crossing her arms. “You said that last time.”

He winces, nibbling on his lower lip. He’s not sure what to say, because— _yeah_ — he did say that. He agreed to take better care of himself and to start eating and sleeping at normal times and clearly he’s not doing a good job of it. But, it’s not like he meant to do it. He assumes that that counts for something. “I just… I got caught up.”

“Caught up,” GoGo repeats disbelievingly. Almond-shaped orbs narrow at him and it takes all he can do to maintain eye contact. “Alright, then. Let’s hear it. Just what had you so caught up that you completely forgot your own biology?”

“Cooking.”

“ _Cooking_ ,” she growls. “You forgot to eat because you were _cooking_?”

“Well, no! Not exactly,” he hastens to explain, skinny shoulders hunched, his hands up in a placating sort of gesture as if that will do any good— as if he doesn’t know better. “I was looking for a recipe for Tadashi!”

“And that took three days? Three days during which looking at food did not remind you that you needed to eat?” She cocks her hip against the side of the bed, her bubble gum popping against her lips.

“I was looking for something specific,” he mumbles in response, a familiar heat running up his neck and spreading across his cheeks. It’s been happening a lot lately. “I needed to find something difficult.”

GoGo looks at him strangely then, tilting her head to the side. “And why would you need something difficult? I thought you said that Tadashi was just learning simple meals to make at home?”

“Well, yeah, he is, but I— I mean…,” Hiro sighs, running his free hand through his hair. “I don’t know.”

One black eyebrow arches, “You don’t know? You’re sitting in a bed in the middle of the medical building and you’re telling me that you don’t know exactly what it was that sent you here? I’m not buying it.”

“It’s complicated,” he shrugs, hoping that that will be the end of it because it _is_ complicated and he doesn’t really understand it himself, but GoGo taps her foot impatiently against the side of the bed and he rambles on. “I mean, Tadashi’s been doing really well with all the recipes lately and I thought— I thought… maybe he would like something more difficult that he couldn’t do without help and— _gaah_! I don’t know!” He makes a frustrated sort of sound, tugging exasperatedly at the hem of his jacket.

His head is a mess and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do about it.

“Ah,” GoGo says. And then she relaxes like she was never angry at all, a smirk pulling at the corners of her lips. “You _want_ Tadashi to need your help.”

“I do _not_ ,” he squawks. “Why would I want that? I’m supposed to be _teaching_ him! Why would I be setting him up to fail unless I wanted to spend more time with— oh.”

Hiro blinks. GoGo chortles at his dumbstruck expression and it’s almost the same as every other time GoGo’s pushed him into realizing something ridiculously obvious about himself. Except it’s not because—

_Tadashi?_

He likes Tadashi. He like- _likes_ Tadashi.

A lot.

So much, in fact, that he’s been subconsciously planning on sabotaging their usual Saturday cooking session to the point where Tadashi wouldn’t even think about discontinuing the lessons. Because he likes them. Because it’s the only time he gets to see Tadashi and he likes being holed up in the kitchen with him for three or four hours every weekend. He likes ruffling Baymax’s oversized ears when he first comes in the door and he likes slipping Mieko the occasional spoonful of raw cookie dough while Tadashi’s pretending not to look. And he absolutely _loves_ it when Tadashi sits by him at the cramped dinner table and smiles at him over his late-night cup of coffee before wishing him a good night.

Oh god.

The heart fluttering makes so much more sense now.

“This is— But I mean, we’re not— _I’m_ not—,” Hiro tries to reason, furrowing his brow. His heart thump, thump, thumps against his chest; his palms are sweaty. “This is terrible! What am I supposed to do now, GoGo?” 

It sounds like he’s pleading. He absolutely is.

“What are you supposed to do,” GoGo reiterates. And then like it’s the most logical thing in the world, “You ask him out. Obviously.”

He gapes at her. “I can’t do that! I’m— I’m _me_ and he’s— It wouldn’t work.” He’s sure of that. He’s not the kind of guy that goes out on dates. He’s too short and too thin and too young and too—

All those bad qualities. He has them all wrapped up in one pintsized package.

But GoGo just smirks at him, “I don’t know, Hiro. Your ass looks fantastic in those jeans.”

He chokes. “It does _not_!”

“Whatever you say, Panda Eyes,” she hums. He tries not to suffocate on air. “Anyway, Wasabi’s waiting for me at the bookstore. We’ll swing by and pick you up as soon as the nurse gives the all clear, so shoot me a text. And think about it. You never know what could end up happening.”

Hiro regains the ability to breathe just in time to see GoGo disappear beyond the privacy curtain. He resolutely does _not_ spend the next thirty minutes looking over his shoulder in an attempt to check out his own ass.

He uses the bedside mirror instead. It’s handheld.

____

The world ends on a Saturday.

Or, at least, Hiro wishes it would as he stands outside Tadashi’s scarlet red door with an armful of ingredients and his best pair of please-date-me jeans hugging his hips. He’s been here a dozen or so times before, but he still feels uncomfortable and out of place, all dolled up in GoGo’s choices for the evening (a pair of skinny navy jeans from the far recesses of his closet and a simple black v-neck that somehow makes his arms look like something other than the twigs everyone knows they are). Wasabi and GoGo both assured him repeatedly that he looked great before they dropped him off for the evening, but now, standing here with the welcome mat beneath his feet, he feels absolutely ridiculous.

He's not built for this.

Hiro’s not built for dressing up to impress someone, especially not someone like Tadashi who he _knows_ would look just as gorgeous in rags as Hiro would in priceless finery. He’s not built for relationships and he’s most certainly not built for starting them. For asking people out like it’s some casual affair. He’s not that kind of guy— that kind of guy that finds love confessions easy or even the kind of guy that knows what love is. He’s completely out of his element and Tadashi’s completely out of his league.

Just what is he supposed to do now?

He knows what he _wants_ to do. He wants to just let things continue as they have been and hope his feelings go away on their own. That would be the most logical thing for him to do, to just pretend that nothing has changed until it really seems as if nothing has. It’s a good plan. A solid, non-humiliating strategy that he knows he could follow through with.

Except he can’t because GoGo made sure that option was unavailable to him almost immediately after finding out that that’s what he was planning to do.

She stole his phone.

More specifically, she stole his phone while he was napping in the lab and then sent Tadashi a revised itinerary of their usual Saturday night cooking lesson. A revised itinerary stating that this would be their last lesson together because there’s no point in continuing them if Tadashi has already learned how to cook.

Tadashi agreed— because why wouldn’t he?— and GoGo forced his hand. And Hiro knows that if he wants to keep spending time with Tadashi (which he very much does), he’s going to have to man up and figure out some other way to do it outside of their casual cooking class. Which is exactly what GoGo wants him to do.

The traitor. Sometimes, he really hates her.

Or just dislikes her.

Deeply.

There’s a bark from the other side of the door and Hiro starts, his shoulders squaring, his back muscles pulled taunt as he hugs the grocery bag closer to his chest. The howl is low and rumbling— Baymax’s unmistakable greeting— and while it usually brings a smile to his face, it only makes him more anxious tonight, his lower lip falling in between his teeth while his heels bounce up and down against the synthetically fibered doormat beneath his feet.

He’s going to miss it. All of it. He’s going to miss Baymax’s silly bark and that weird way he wags his tail when he wants something. He’s going to miss stepping over Mieko’s toys and the incessant way she chatters when she’s had a good day. And the apartment. Hiro’s going to miss that too— the crammed little apartment with the mismatched bowls and the lumpy loveseat in the corner, the creaky staircase that somehow hasn’t fallen down, the unidentifiable stain on the wall by the table in the shape of a demonic frog.

And Tadashi. He’s going to miss him the most. He’s going to miss his broad smile and his stupid oversized ears and those ridiculous cardigans that he keeps in every color. He’s going to miss cooking with him, those times they would accidently brush up against each other when Tadashi was doing something particularly stupid and Hiro needed to help him figure it out.

Because if things don’t work out between the two of them, he won’t ever have a reason to come back here again. And they won’t work out.

Possibly.

Most likely.

After the week he’s had, Hiro’s not entirely sure of anything anymore, except that he’s been standing around outside Tadashi’s door for nearly fifteen minutes now and it’s clearly passed time for him to get over himself and go in. There’s no time like the present (or something).

So, with a little shake of his head, he raises his hand to knock. There’s some rustling inside the apartment, quickly followed by the sound of something hitting the ground before Tadashi swings the door open, looking a little worse for wear with his hair damp and his green t-shirt slightly off center.

“Hey, Hiro,” he smiles, coffee-colored irises looking him up and down. The tips of Tadashi’s ears turn pink; Hiro wonders why. “You look nice today.”

He doesn’t mean anything by it, Hiro’s sure, but he feels that unfortunately familiar heat travelling up his neck and painting his cheeks anyway. He swallows passed the butterflies in his gut. “Uh, thanks.”

His voice breaks in the middle of the word and his cheeks (impossibly) darken, but Tadashi just shrugs it off, opening the door a little wider so Hiro can slide by him, carefully avoiding Baymax’s prone form. “Don’t mention it. Do you need anything or should I go ahead and get started on dinner? It’s getting kind of late.”

“No— uh, no. I’m good,” Hiro stutters as he places the groceries in the kitchen, his fingers shaking. “Really, really good. So, umm… yeah.”

Tadashi blinks at him. His head tilts slightly to the side. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah— yeah. Absolutely. Never better.” He winces as soon as the words leave his mouth, feeling utterly ridiculous because this is _Tadashi_. They’ve been through this routine over a dozen times now. There’s no need for him to be nervous and jittery and tense. So what if he likes him? So what if he’s clearly making a huge mistake by maybe— sort of kind of— thinking about going through with GoGo’s plan to ask him out. It’s not a big deal. He’s capable of asking a question without making a complete fool of himself. Probably. 

“Well, if you’re sure…”

“Completely,” Hiro interjects, ignoring the worried look Tadashi shoots him. “So, anyway, the recipe for tonight is okonomiyaki. I remember you saying that you liked it a couple weeks ago and— and yeah, it seemed like a good test meal. Since it’s going to be the last one and everything.”

Inky black brows furrow for a moment before Tadashi shrugs. “Sounds good to me. Guess I’ll get started then?”

They both fall into their roles easily after that, with Tadashi manning the food and Hiro watching from the sidelines to keep him from adding anything unnecessary— namely, unfortunately large quantities of salt. And it goes well, better than it ever has before. Tadashi doesn’t waste any of the food and Hiro doesn’t have to step in to correct him at all. It’s perfect and as Tadashi cooks, Hiro feels himself relaxing into the silence between them, broken only when the older man draws him into a conversation about Mrs. Matsuda, the strangely eccentric woman that frequents the garage where he works.

It’s oddly comfortable and Hiro doesn’t want to ruin that by bringing up relationships and straining what they already have by trying to make it more than it is. He can put off asking until later. He has some time to figure it out.

But he really doesn’t because an hour and fifteen minutes after he arrives, once the food is done and on the table, he’s even less sure of what he’s supposed to say, of how he’s supposed to bring it up. The okonomiyaki turned out flawlessly, the perfectly shaped dinner pancake laid out in front of him with a cartoon robot drawn in the sauce. It’s adorable.

He thinks he might be sick.

“So, how’d I do,” Tadashi asks from his spot at his side. There’s a hopeful lilt in his voice, like a child wanting some sort of validation. It’s more endearing than it should be. “Any good?”

“Great,” Hiro swallows thickly, cutting another piece and popping it into his mouth. He chews in an effort to keep himself from scowling. The food is delicious and balanced and his last hope of maybe having Tadashi mess up and ask him to come back next week is snuffed out. There’s really no reason for him to be here anymore. The thought makes him sad. “A perfect score for your last lesson.”

“Last lesson,” Mieko frowns from across the dinner table, twin black pigtails bobbing as she straightens up in her chair. “You’re not coming back?”

Chocolate brown orbs blink and he tries to force a smile. “Well, I mean— I… You wanted your dad to learn how to cook, right? I think he can do a good job without me now.”

Tadashi chokes on his water. Big blue eyes blink at him before swiveling back to Hiro, Mieko’s tiny nose scrunching. “But I like it when you come over.”

Her voice is almost a whine and Hiro is completely dumbstruck, his mouth trapped in a half-opened little ‘o.’ Tadashi continues to sputter beside him, his face and ears a shocking shade of red. Hiro swallows. “I like coming over too,” he answers honestly, “but I don’t think your dad would like to keep playing host every weekend.”

“But Daddy likes it when you come over too! He said so!”

The fluttery feeling in his chest is back and his face burns. Mieko looks to her father, her crystal blue eyes pleading with him and he just rubs his neck sheepishly. Somehow, Hiro thinks that Tadashi’s cheeks are an even deeper shade of red than his own.

“W-well,” Tadashi stuttered, “I’m sure Hiro has better things to do with his Saturday nights than hang out around here all the time.”

“I don’t. I’d much rather be here.”

The words leave his mouth without his permission and it takes all he can do to keep from literally plastering his hands over his lips to keep them from opening again. Tadashi stares at him, all red faced and embarrassed and Mieko—

Mieko just looks between the two of them, her lips turned downward into a light frown. “Then… why aren’t you coming back next Saturday?”

There’s honest confusion in her voice, the kind that only little kids can have with their earnest intentions and straightforward thinking. Hiro blinks at her across the table and shrugs, “Do you want me to?”

“Uh-huh.” She nods empathetically and her pigtails bob with her. “I would like that very much.”

“I guess I—”

“Wait,” Tadashi cuts in with a crease between his brows. His face is still red, incredibly so, but coffee-colored irises stare at Hiro evenly, not trying to hide. “If you like coming here, why did you tell me you wanted to cancel the lessons?”

“ _Oh god_ ,” Hiro moans, hiding his face in his hands. _GoGo_ — she caused all of this. Mieko likes having him here. _Tadashi_ likes having him here and if GoGo hadn’t stolen his phone then none of this would have happened and they could have kept going on like normal. This ridiculous dinner conversation wouldn’t be happening and he wouldn’t have nearly face-planted in a pile of tonkatsu sauce. “I didn’t,” he continues miserably, “My friend did.”

“Your friend tried to cancel the lessons? But why would they do that?”

And that’s just the crux of the matter, isn’t it? The one thing that Hiro’s been trying to avoid saying because he doesn’t want to mess anything up between them.

Not that it matters much now. He’s not sure he could mess anything up more— not with Tadashi looking at him with a confused, red face and Mieko staring at the two of them like they’ve both gone completely mad.

“Because she wanted me to ask you out instead. Because I _like_ you.”

He’s not sure exactly what he was trying to say, but the words just fall out as soon as he opens his mouth, all rushed and jumbled. It’s not the elegant confession he was hoping for, but he knows he was understood by the way Tadashi sucks in a breath at his side. He feels himself sinking into his chair, trying to make himself smaller because he doesn’t know what he was thinking and this wasn’t a good idea and—

“ _Really_? You like _me_?”

Hiro blinks. Tadashi blinks back. “…yes? Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because I’m— I’m mean I’m not anything really—,” Tadashi shakes his head, a baffled look crossing his face. “Oh.” 

“Oh?”

A sheepish smile pulls at his lips, “I like you too.”

“You like me too,” Hiro repeats incredulously, that weird fluttering starting up all over again, a new sort of blush painting his cheeks. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

“Oh.”

They stare at each other strangely, brown eyes blinking. Hiro’s not sure what to say and it looks like Tadashi isn’t either, his smile broadening, lighting up his face.

Hiro’s pretty sure it’s the best thing he’s ever seen.

“Wait,” Mieko starts, blinking at the two of them. “Does that mean Hiro’s coming back next week?”

He smiles.

“ _Absolutely_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A̶r̶e̶n̶'̶t̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶y̶ ̶c̶u̶t̶e̶?̶
> 
> And that's it. The completely lame ending to my completely lame story. I'm not sure how I feel about it, especially since I wasn't able to include a lot of the things I was initially planning on, but overall, I'm happy that I managed to finish it. Humor/comedy is really not my strong suit, so I'm kind of proud of myself for making it this far with it. I'm just sorry it ended up taking so long! ^^; 
> 
> Anyway, I really hope you guys enjoyed the story! Comments are welcomed and responded to! I'd love to hear your thoughts! =)


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